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HOWARDS END
. ?v
f
Er Mr FORSTER
AUTHOR OP “ A ROOM WITH A VIEW,” ETC.
“ Only connect . .
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Cbe IKnickerbocfeer press
1910
Copyright, 1910
BY
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Exchange
MUrary of Supreme Council
Aug IO, 1940
ttbc ftntcfcerbocfter press, flew JflorK
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.
Helen’s Letters
i
II.
Aunt Juley Interferes
6
III.
At Cross Purposes
14
IV.
The Wilcox Episode .
26
V.
The Concert at Queen’s Hall .
36
VI.
Leonard and Jacky
53
VII.
The New Neighbours .
66
VIII.
Margaret Takes the Bull by the
Horns .....
76
IX.
A Luncheon-Party
88
X.
Christmas Shopping
95
XI.
A Surprising Request
106
XII.
The Situation Changes
124
XIII.
A Mysterious Caller
131
XIV.
The Mystery Explained
140
iii
IV
Contents
CHAPTER
XV.
A Special Case .
*53
XVI.
The Schlegels Apply their
Theories ....
1 68
XVII.
A Surprise for Margaret
182
XVIII.
“Yes” or “No”
191
XIX.
Margaret Tells Helen
203
XX.
An Evening on the Parade
214
XXI.
An Interlude
224
XXII.
Two Letters
226
XXIII.
Margaret Sees the Estate
235
XXIV.
Howards End Idealised
246
XXV.
On the Way to Shropshire .
252
XXVI.
A Disclosure
265
XXVII.
Two Kinds of People .
285
XXVIII.
The Core of the Question .
293
XXIX.
A Sudden Departure .
298
XXX.
Helen Consults with Tibby
306
XXXI.
Established in Ducie Street
314
XXXII.
A Piece of News
321
Contents
v
CHAPTER PAGE
XXXIII.
Margaret’s Second Visit to the
Estate .....
326
XXXIV.
Helen’s “ Madness” .
337
XXXV.
The Trap Is Set ....
349
XXXVI.
The Scandal Is out
354
XXXVII.
Helen’s Whim ....
358
XXXVIII.
A Quarrel .....
37i
XXXIX.
What Tibby Knows
379
XL.
Under the Wych-Elm .
382
XLI.
A Tragedy .....
388
XLII.
The Most Important Witness
400
XLIII.
The Easiest Way out
406
XLIV.
Margaret’s Conquest
413
HOWARDS END
CHAPTER I
Helen’s Letters
One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
“Howards End,
“ Tuesday .
“Dearest Meg,
“ It is n’t going to be what we expected. It is old and
little, and altogether delightful — red brick. We can
scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will
happen when Paul (younger son) arrives to-morrow.
From hall you go right or left into dining-room or draw-
ing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open
another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a
sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a
row there, and three attics in a row above. That is n’t
all the house ready, but it ’s all that one notices — nine
windows as you look up from the front garden.
“Then there ’b a very big wych-elm — to the left as
you look up — leaning a little over the house, and stand-
i
2
Howards End
ing on the boundary between the garden and meadow.
I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms,
oaks — no nastier than ordinary oaks — pear-trees, apple-
trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However,
I must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to
show that it is n’t the least what we expected. Why did
we settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles,
and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I be-
lieve simply because we associate them with expensive
hotels — Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down
long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We
females are that unjust.
“I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train
later. They are as angry as I am that you did not come
too ; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal
disease every month. How could he have got hay fever
in London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you
should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell
him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay
fever too, but he ’s brave, and gets quite cross when we
inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby
a power of good. But you won’t agree, and I ’d better
change the subject/
“This long letter is because I ’m writing before break-
fast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is
covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs.
Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves
it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was
watching the large red poppies come out. Then she
walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the
right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress
over the sopping grass, and she cams back with her
hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday — I suppose
Helen’s Letters
3
for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it.
The air here is delicious. Later onj heard the noise of
croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles
Wilcox practising ; they are keen on all games. Presently
he started sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more
clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then,
4 a- tissue, a- tissue ’ : he has to stop too. Then Evie comes
out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine
that is tacked on to a green-gage-tree — they put every-
thing to use — and then she says ‘a- tissue/ and in she
goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail,
still smelling hay1 and looking at the flowers. I inflict all
this on you because once you said that life is sometimes
life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn
to distinguish tother from which, and up to now I have
always put that down as ‘ Meg’s clever nonsense.’ But
this morning, it really does seem not life but a play,
and it did amuse me enormously to watch the W’s.
Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in.
“I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs.
Wilcox wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it
is n’t exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut
your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected.
Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet.
There is a great hedge of them over the lawn — mag-
nificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and
nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks
through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which
is the only house near us. There goes the breakfast
gong. Much Ioa e. Modified love to Tibby. Love to
Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you com-
pany, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again
Thursday. “Helen.”
4
Howards End
“ Howards End,
“ Friday .
‘‘Dearest Meg,
“ I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs.
Wilcox, if quieter than in Germany, is sweeter than ever,
and I never saw anything like her steady unselfishness,
and the best of it is that the others do not take advantage
of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that
you can imagine. I do really feel that we are making
friends. The fun of it is that they think me a noodle, and
say so — at least, Mr. Wilcox does — and when that hap-
pens, and one does n’t mind, it ’s a pretty sure test, is n’t
it? He says the most horrid things about woman’s
suffrage so nicely, and when I said I believed in equality
he just folded his arms and gave me such a setting down
as I ’ve never had. Meg, shall we ever learn to talk
less? I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I
could n’t point to a time when men had been equal, nor
even to a time when the wish to be equal had made them
happier in other ways. I could n’t say a word. I had
just picked up the notion that equality is good from some
book — probably from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it ’s
been knocked into pieces, and, like all people who are
really strong, Mr. Wilcox did it without hurting me.
On the other hand, I laugh at them for catching hay
fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us
out every day in the motor — a tomb with trees in it, a
hermit’s house, a wonderful road that was made by the
Kings of Mercia — tennis — a cricket match — bridge —
and at night we squeeze up in this lovely house. The
whole clan’s here now — it’s like a rabbit warren.
Evie is a dear. They want me to stop over Sunday
— I suppose it won’t matter if I do. Marvellous
Helen's Letters
5
weather and the views marvellous — views westward
to the high ground. Thank you for your letter. Burn
this.
“ Your affectionate
“Helen.”
“ Howards End,
“ Sunday .
“ Dearest, dearest Meg, — I do not know what you will
say : Paul and I are in love — the younger son who only
came here Wednesday.”
CHAPTER II
Aunt Juley Interferes
Margaret glanced at her sister’s note and pushed it
over the breakfast- table to her aunt. There was a
moment’s hush, and then the flood-gates opened.
“I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no
more than you do. We met — we only met the father
and mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I
did n’t even know their son’s name. It ’s all so — ”
She waved her hand and laughed a little.
“In that case it is far too sudden.”
“Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?”
“But, Margaret, dear, I mean, we mustn’t be un-
practical now that we ’ve come to facts. It is too
sudden, surely.”
“Who knows!”
“But, Margaret, dear ”
“I ’ll go for her other letters,” said Margaret. “No,
I won’t, I ’ll finish my breakfast. In fact, I have n’t
them. We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition
that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I
had got it into our heads that there was a grand old
cathedral at Speyer — the Archbishop of $peyer was one
of the seven electors — you know — ‘ Speyer, Maintz, and
Aunt Juley Interferes 7
Koln.* Those three sees once commanded the Rhine
Valley and got it the name of Priest Street.”
“I still feel quite uneasy about this business,
Margaret.”
“The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first
sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we
had seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been
ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch
left of the original structure. We wasted a whole day,
and came across the Wilcoxes as we were eating our
sandwiches in the public gardens. They too, poor
things, had been taken in — they were actually stopping
at Speyer — and they rather liked Helen’s insisting that
they must fly with us to Heidelberg. As a matter of
fact, they did come on next day. We all took some
drives together. They knew us well enough to ask
Helen to come and see them — at least, I was asked too,
but Tibby’s illness prevented me, so last Monday she
went alone. That ’s all. You know as much as I do
now. It ’s a young man out of the unknown. She was
to have come back Saturday, but put off till Monday,
perhaps on account of — I don’t know.”
She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London
morning. Their house was in Wickham Place, and
fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings sepa-
rated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the
sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose
waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into
a profound silence while the waves without were still
beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats —
expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of con-
cierges and palms — it fulfilled its purpose, and gained
for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace.
8
Howards End
These, too, would be swept away in time, and another
promontory would arise upon their site, as humanity
piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of
London.
Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her
nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hys-
terical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk.
Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer,
and declared that never, never should she be so mis-
guided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that
the principles of restoration were ill understood in Ger-
many. “The Germans,” she said, “are too thorough,
and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times
it does not do.”
“Exactly,” said Margaret; “Germans are too thor-
ough.” And her eyes began to shine.
“Of course I regard you Schlegels as English,” said
Mrs. Munt hastily — “English to the backbone.”
Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand.
“And that reminds me — Helen’s letter ”
“Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about
Helen’s letter. I know — I must go down and see her.
I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go
down.”
“But go with some plan,” said Mrs. Munt, admitting
into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. “ Margaret,
if I may interfere, don’t be taken by surprise. What do
you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are
they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who
is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they
care about Literature and Art? That is most important
when you come to think of it. Literature and Art.
Most important. How old would the son be? She
Aunt Juley Interferes 9
says ‘ younger son . ’ Would he be in a position to marry ?
Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather ’ ’
“I gathered nothing.’'
They began to talk at once.
“Then in that case ”
“In that case I can make no plans, don’t you see.”
“On the contrary ”
“I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn’t
a baby.”
“Then in that case, my dear, why go down?”
Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why
she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She
was not going to say, “I love my dear sister; I must be
near her at this crisis of her life.” The affections are
more reticent than the passions, and their expression
more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love
with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the
housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the
voiceless language of sympathy.
“I consider you odd girls,” continued Mrs. Munt,
“and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older
than your years. But — you won’t be offended? —
frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It re-
quires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me
back to Swanage.” She spread out her plump arms.
“I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this
house whose name I forget instead of you.”
“Aunt Juley” — she jumped up and kissed her — “I
must, must go to Howards End myself. You don’t
exactly understand, though I can never thank you
properly for offering.”
“I do understand,” retorted Mrs. Munt, with im-
mense confidence. “I go down in no spirit of interfqr-
IO
Howards End
ence, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary.
Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong
thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for
Helen’s happiness you would offend the whole of these
Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions —
not that one minds offending them.”
“I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen’s
writing that she and a man are in love. There is no
question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the
rest is n’t worth a straw. A long engagement if you
like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action — no,
Aunt Juley, no.”
Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely bril-
liant, but filled with something that took the place of
both qualities — something best described as a pro-
found vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all
that she encountered in her path through life.
“If Helen had written the same to me about a shop-
assistant or a penniless clerk ”
“Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut
the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters.”
“ — or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls
for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same.”
Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt
that she was not mad really, and convinced observers
of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she
added: “Though in the case of Carter Paterson I
should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I
must say.”
“I should think so,” said Mrs. Munt; “and, indeed, I
can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said
anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it,
but most good people would think you mad. Imagine
II
Aunt Juley Interferes
how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a
person who will go slowly y slowly in this business, and
see how things are and where they are likely to lead to.”
Margaret was down on this.
“But you implied just now that the engagement must
be broken off.”
“I think probably it must; but slowly.”
“Can you break an engagement off slowly?” Her
eyes lit up. “What ’s an engagement made of, do you
suppose? I think it ’s made of some hard stuff that
may snap, but can’t break. It is different to the other
ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of
degree. They ’re different.”
“Exactly so. But won’t you let me just run down to
Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will
really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand
the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look
round will be enough for me.”
Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and
then ran upstairs to see her brother.
He was not so well.
The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night.
His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous mem-
brane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condi-
tion. The only thing that made life worth living was
the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose
Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at
frequent intervals during the day.
It was rather difficult. Something must be done
about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a
criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to
this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit
seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor
12
Howards End
arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it
really be best to accept Aunt Juley’s kind offer, and to
send her down to Howards End with a note?
Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing
rapidly from one decision to another. Running down-
stairs into the library, she cried: “Yes, I have changed
my mind; I do wish that you would go.”
There was a train from King’s Cross at eleven. At half-
past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and
Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station.
“You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into
discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen,
and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear
of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names
straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so
uncivilised and wrong.”
“So uncivilised?” queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that
she was losing the point of some brilliant remark.
“Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would
you please talk the thing over only with Helen.”
“Only with Helen.”
“Because — ” But it was no moment to expound
the personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank
from it, and contented herself with stroking her good
aunt’s hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and
half poetically, on the journey that was about to begin
from King’s Cross.
Like many others who have lived long in a great
capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway
termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the un-
known. Through them we pass out into adventure
and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington
all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the
13
Aunt Juley Interferes
inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimit-
able Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston;
Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians
realise this, as is natural ; those of them who are so un-
fortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt
Bahnhof the Stazione d’ltalia, because by it they must
return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner
who does not endow his stations with some personality,
and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear
and love.
To Margaret — I hope that it will not set the reader
against her — the station of King’s Cross had always
suggested Infinity. Its very situation — withdrawn a
little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras — im-
plied a comment on the materialism of life. Those two
great arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between
them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal
adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would
certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of
prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that
it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me
hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the
train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class
ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two
4 ‘seconds” on the train, one smoking and the other babies
— one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and
that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was
confronted with the following telegram:
“All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one.— ‘
Helen.”
But Aunt Juley was gone — gone irrevocably, and no
power on earth could stop her.
CHAPTER III
At Cross Purposes
Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission.
Her nieces were independent young women, and it was
not often that she was able to help them. Emily’s
daughters had never been quite like other girls. They
had been left motherless when Tibby was born, when
Helen was five and Margaret herself but thirteen. It
was before the passing of the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill,
so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to go and
keep house at Wickham Place. But her brother-in-law,
who was peculiar and a German, had referred the ques-
tion to Margaret, who with the crudity of youth had
answered, “No, they could manage much better alone.”
Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs.
Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no
longer, had been grateful and extremely nice, but the
substance of her answer had been the same. “I must
not interfere a third time,” thought Mrs. Munt. How-
ever, of course she did. She learnt, to her horror, that
Margaret, now of age, was taking her money out of the
old safe investments and putting it into Foreign Things,
which always smash. Silence would have been criminal.
Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails, and most
14
15
At Cross Purposes
ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. “Then
we should be together, dear.” Margaret, out of polite-
ness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham and
Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did
admirably and the Nottingham and Derby declined
with the steady dignity of which only Home Rails are
capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to rejoice, and to
say, “I did manage that, at all events. When the smash
comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back
upon.” This year Helen came of age, and exactly the
same thing happened in Helen’s case ; she also would shift
her money out of Consols, but she, too, almost without
being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to the Notting-
ham and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in social
matters their aunt had accomplished nothing. Sooner
or later the girls would enter on the process known as
throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed
hitherto, it was only that they might throw themselves
more vehemently in the future. They saw too many
people at Wickham Place — unshaven musicians, an
actress even, German cousins (one knows what foreigners
are) , acquaintances picked up at Continental hotels (one
knows what they are too) . It was interesting, and down
at Swanage no one appreciated culture more than Mrs.
Munt; but it was dangerous, and disaster was bound
to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on
the spot when the disaster came!
The train sped northward, under innumerable tun-
nels. It was only an hour’s journey, but Mrs. Munt
had to raise and lower the window again and again.
She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw
light for a moment, and entered the North Welwyn
Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the immense
i6
Howards End
viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and
the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks
of politicians. At times the Great North Road ac-
companied her, more suggestive of infinity than any
railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred years, to
such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars,
and to such culture as is implied by the advertisements
of antibilious pills. To history, to tragedy, to the past,
to the future, Mrs. Munt remained equally indifferent;
hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey, and
to rescue poor Helen from this dreadful mess.
The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of
the large villages that are strung so frequently along the
North Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of
coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London,
it had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High
Street had budded out right and left into residential
estates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated
houses passed before Mrs. Munt’s inattentive eyes, a
series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that
stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of
soldiers. Beyond these tumuli, habitations thickened,
and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that was
almost a town.
The station, like the scenery, like Helen’s letters,
struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will
it lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island
platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort
exacted by business men. But it held hints of local
life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to
discover.
“I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “ Its
name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?”
At Cross Purposes 17
“Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called.
A young man in front of them turned round.
“She ’s wanting Howards End.”
There was nothing for it but to go forward, though
Mrs. Munt was too much agitated even to stare at
the stranger. But remembering that there were two
brothers, she had the sense to say to him, “Excuse me
asking, but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the
elder?”
“The younger. Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, well” — she controlled herself with difficulty.
“Really. Are you? I — ” She moved) away from
the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am Miss
Schlegel’s aunt. I ought to introduce myself, ought n’t
I ? My name is Mrs. Munt.”
She was conscious that he raised his cap and said
quite coolly, “Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping
with us. Did you want to see her?”
“Possibly ”
“ I ’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo — ” He thought.
“Our motor ’s here. I ’ll run you up in it.”
“That is very kind ”
“Not at all, if you ’ll just wait till they bring out a
parcel from the office. This way.”
“My niece is not with you by any chance?”
“No; I came over with my father. He has gone on
north in your train. You ’ll see Miss Schlegel at lunch.
You ’re coming up to lunch, I hope?”
“I should like to come up,” said Mrs. Munt, not com-
mitting herself to nourishment until she had studied
Helen’s lover a little more. He seemed a gentleman,
but had so rattled her round that her powers of obser-
vation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily.
i8
Howards End
To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp
depressions at the corners of his mouth, or in the rather
box-like construction of his forehead. He was dark,
clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command.
“ In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may
be windy in front.”
“In front if I may; then we can talk.”
“But excuse me one moment — I can’t think what
they ’re doing with that parcel.” He strode into the
booking-office, and called with a new voice: “Hi! hi,
you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day?
Parcel for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!”
Emerging, he said in quieter tones: “This station ’s
abominably organised; if I had my way, the whole lot
of ’em should get the sack. May I help you in?”
“This is very good of you,” said Mrs. Munt, as she
settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, and
suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls.
She was more civil than she had intended, but really
this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a
little afraid of him; his self-possession was extraordinary.
“Very good indeed,” she repeated, adding: “It is just
what I should have wished.”
“Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight
look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped
Mrs. Munt’s attention. “I was just tooling my father
over to catch the down train.”
“You see, we heard from Helen this morning.”
Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his
engine, and performing other actions with which this
story has no concern. The great car began to rock, and
the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang
agreeably up and down among the red cushions. “The
19
At Cross Purposes
mater will be very glad to see you,” he mumbled. “ Hi!
I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards End. Bring it
out. Hi!”
A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand
and an entry book in the other. With the gathering
• whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: “Sign,
must I? Why the — should I sign after all this bother?
Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time
I report you to the station-master. My time ’s of value,
though yours may n’t be. Here” — here being a tip.
“Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.”
“Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.”
“And do you object to going through the village?
It is rather a longer spin, but I have one or two
commissions.”
“I should love going through the village. Naturally
I am very anxious to talk things over with you.”
As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was dis-
obeying Margaret’s instructions. Only disobeying them
in the letter, surely. Margaret had only warned her
against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely
it was not “uncivilised or wrong” to discuss it with the
young man himself, since chance had thrown them
together.
A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by
her side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they
drove, the bearded porter — life is a mysterious business
— looking after them with admiration.
The wind was in their faces down the station road,
blowing the dust into Mrs. Munt’s eyes. But as soon
as they turned into the Great North Road she opened
fire. “You can well imagine,” she said, “that the news
was a great shock to us.”
20
Howards End
“What news?”
“Mr. Wilcox,” she said frankly, “Margaret has told
me everything — everything. I have seen Helen’s
letter.”
He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed
on his work; he was travelling as quickly as he dared
down the High Street. But he inclined his head in her
direction, and said: “I beg your pardon; I didn’t catch.”
“About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very
exceptional person — I am sure you will let me say this,
feeling towards her as you do — indeed, all the Schlegels
are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but
it was a great shock.”
They drew up opposite a draper’s. Without replying,
he turned round in his seat, and contemplated the cloud
of dust that they had raised in their passage through
the village. It was settling again, but not all into the
road from which he had taken it. Some of it had per-
colated through the open windows, some had whitened
the roses and gooseberries of the wayside gardens, while
a certain proportion had entered the lungs of the vil-
lagers. “I wonder when they ’ll learn wisdom and tar
the roads,” was his comment. Then a man ran out
of the draper’s with a roll of oilcloth, and off they
went again.
“ Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor
Tibby, so I am here to represent her and to have a good
talk.”
“I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man,
again drawing up outside a shop. “But I still have n’t
quite understood.”
“Helen, Mr. Wilcox — my niece and you.”
He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely
21
At Cross Purposes
bewildered. Horror smote her to the heart, for even
she began to suspect that they were at cross-purposes,
and that she had commenced her mission by some
hideous blunder.
“Miss Schlegel and myself ?” he asked, compressing
his lips.
“I trust there has been no misunderstanding,’’
quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her letter certainly read that
way.”
“What way?”
“That you and she — ” She paused, then drooped her
eyelids.
“I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily.
“What an extraordinary mistake!”
“Then you didn’t the least — ” she stammered,
getting blood-red in the face, and wishing she had
never been born.
“Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then he caught his
breath and exploded with, “Oh, good God! Don’t tell
me it ’s some silliness of Paul’s.”
“But you are Paul.”
“I ’m not.”
“Then why did you say so at the station?”
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“I beg your pardon, you did.”
“I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles.”
“Younger” may mean son as opposed to father, or
second brother as opposed to first. There is much to
be said for either view, and later on they said it. But
they had other questions before them now.
“Do you mean to tell me that Paul ”
But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he
22
Howards End
was talking to a porter, and, certain that he had de-
ceived her at the station, she too grew angry.
“Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your
niece ”
Mrs. Munt — such is human nature — determined that
she would champion the lovers. She was not going to
be bullied by a severe young man. “Yes, they care for
one another very much indeed,” she said. “I dare say
they will tell you about it by-and-by. We heard this
morning.”
And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot,
the idiot, the little fool!”
Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If
that is your attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk.”
“I beg you will do no such thing. I take you up this
moment to the house. Let me tell you the thing ’s im-
possible, and must be stopped.”
Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when
she did it was only to protect those whom she loved.
On this occasion she blazed out. “I quite agree, sir.
The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop
it. My niece is a very exceptional person, and I am
not inclined to sit still while she throws herself away on
those who will not appreciate her.”
Charles worked his jaws.
“Considering she has only known your brother since
Wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a
stray hotel ”
“ Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman
will overhear.”
Esprit de classe — if one may coin the phrase — was
strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a mem-
ber of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a
23
At Cross Purposes
saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth.
“Right behind?”
“Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud
of dust.
“I warn you: Paul has n’t a penny; it ’s useless.”
“No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The
warning is all the other way. My niece has been very
foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and take
her back to London with me.”
“He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He could n’t
think of marrying for years, and when he does it must be
a woman who can stand the climate, and is in other
ways — Why has n’t he told us? Of course he ’s
ashamed. He knows he ’s been a fool. And so he has
— a downright fool.”
She grew furious.
“Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing
the news.”
“If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark
I ’d box your ears. You ’re not fit to clean my niece’s
boots, to sit in the same room with her, and you dare —
you actually dare — I decline to argue with such a
person.”
“All I know is, she ’s spread the thing and he has n’t,
and my father ’s away and I ”
“And all that I know is ”
“Might I finish my sentence, please?”
“No.”
Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerv-
ing all over the lane.
She screamed.
So they played the game of Capping Families, a
round of which is always played when love would unite
24
Howards End
two members of our race. But they played it with
unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schle-
gels were better than Wilcoxes, Wilcoxes better than
Schlegels. They flung decency aside. The man was
young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of
coarseness was latent. Their quarrel was no more sur-
prising than are most quarrels — inevitable at the time,
incredible afterwards. But it was more than usually
futile. A few minutes, and they were enlightened.
The motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking
very pale, ran out to meet her aunt.
“Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Mar-
garet; I — I meant to stop your coming. It is n’t — it ’s
over.”
The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst
into tears.
“Aunt Juley dear, don’t. Don’t let them know I ’ve
been so silly. It was n’t anything. Do bear up for my
.sake.”
“Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off.
“Don’t let them know. They are never to know.”
“Oh, my darling Helen ”
“Paul! Paul!”
A very young man came out of the house.
“Paul, is there any truth in this?”
“I did n’t— I don’t ”
“Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did
or did n’t Miss Schlegel ”
“Charles dear,” said a voice from the garden.
“Charles, dear Charles, one does n’t ask plain questions.
There are n’t such things.”
They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.
She approached just as Helen’s letter had described
25
At Cross Purposes
her, trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was
actually a wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to be-
long not to the young people and their motor, but to the
house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew
that she worshipped the past, and that the instinctive
wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon
her — that wisdom to which we give the clumsy name of
aristocracy. High bom she might not be. But as-
suredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them help
her. When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened, and
Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say, “Sepa-
rate those human beings who will hurt each other most.
The rest can wait.” So she did not ask questions.
Still less did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a
competent society hostess would have done. She said :
“Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your
room or to my room, whichever you think best. Paul,
do find Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but I ’m not
sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it.” And
when they had obeyed her, she turned to her elder son,
who still stood in the throbbing, stinking car, and smiled
at him with tenderness, and without saying a word,
turned away from him towards her flowers.
“Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has
been playing the fool again?”
“It is all right, dear. They have broken off the
engagement.”
‘ ‘ Engagement ! ”
“They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put
that way,” said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a
rose.
CHAPTER IV
The Wilcox Episode
Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Place in a
state of collapse, and for a little time Margaret had three
invalids on her hands. Mrs. Munt soon recovered.
She possessed to a remarkable degree the power of dis-
torting the past, and before many days were over she
had forgotten the part played by her own imprudence
in the catastrophe. Even at the crisis she had cried,
“Thank goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!” which
during the journey to London evolved into, “It had to
be gone through by some one,” which in its turn ripened
into the permanent form of “The one time I really did
help Emily’s girls was over the Wilcox business.” But
Helen was a more serious patient. New ideas had burst
upon her like a thunderclap, and by them and by their
reverberations she had been stunned.
The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with
an individual, but with a family.
Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned
up into his key. The energy of the Wilcoxes had fas-
cinated her, had created new images of beauty in her
responsive mind. To be all day with them in the open
air, to sleep at night under their roof, had seemed the
27
The Wilcox Episode
supreme joy of life, and had led to that abandonment
of personality that is a possible prelude to love. She
had liked giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles;
she had liked being told that her notions of life were
sheltered or academic; that Equality was nonsense,
Votes for Women nonsense, Socialism nonsense, Art
and Literature, except when conducive to strengthening
the character, nonsense. One by one the Schlegel
fetiches had been overthrown, and, though professing
to defend them, she had rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox
said that one sound man of business did more good to the
world than a dozen of your social reformers, she had
swallowed the curious assertion without a gasp, and had
leant back luxuriously among the cushions of his motor-^
car. When Charles said, “Why be so polite to servants? /
they don’t understand it,” she had not given the
Schlegel retort of, “If they don’t understand it, I do.”
No; she had vowed to be less polite to servants in the
future. “I am swathed in cant,” she thought, “and
it is good for me to be stripped of it.” And all that she
thought or did or breathed was a quiet preparation for
Paul. Paul was inevitable. Charles was taken up
with another girl, Mr. Wilcox was so old, Evie so young,
Mrs. Wilcox so different. Round the absent brother
she began to throw the halo of Romance, to irradiate
i him with all the splendour of those happy days, to feel
that in him she should draw nearest to the robust ideal.
He and she were about the same age, Evie said. Most
people thought Paul handsomer than his brother. He
was certainly a better shot, though not so good at golf.
And when Paul appeared, flushed with the triumph of
getting through an examination, and ready to flirt
with any pretty girl, Helen met him halfway, or more
28 Howards End
than halfway, and turned towards him on the Sunday
evening.
He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria,
and he should have continued to talk of it, and allowed
their guest to recover. But the heave of her bosom
flattered him. Passion was possible, and he became
passionate. Deep down in him something whispered,
“This girl would let you kiss her; you might not have
such a chance again.”
That was “how it happened,” or, rather, how Helen
described it to her sister, using words even more un-
sympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss,
the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for
hours after it — who can describe that? It is so easy
for an Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions
of human beings. To the insular cynic and the insular
moralist they offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy
to talk of “passing emotion,” and to forget how vivid
the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer,
to forget, is at root a good one. We recognise that
emotion is not enough, and that men and women are
personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere
opportunities for an electrical discharge. Y et we rate the
impulse too highly. We do not admit that by collisions
of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken
open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to bring
nothing more intense than the embrace of this boy who
played no part in it. He had drawn her out of the house,
where there was danger of surprise and light; he had
led her by a path he knew, until they stood under the
column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the darkness,
he had whispered “I love you” when she was desiring
love. In time his slender personality faded, the scene
29
The Wilcox Episode
that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years
that followed she never saw the like of it again.
“I understand,” said Margaret — “at least, I under-
stand as much as ever is understood of these things.
Tell me now what happened on the Monday morning.”
“It was over at once.”
“How, Helen?”
“I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came
downstairs I got nervous, and when I went into the
dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie —
— I can’t explain — managing the tea-urn, and Mr.
Wilcox reading the Times. ”
“Was Paul there?”
“Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks
and shares, and he looked frightened.”
By slight indications the sisters could convey much to
each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene,
and Helen’s next remark did not surprise her.
“Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened
it is too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or
for men of another sort — father, for instance; but for
men like that! When I saw all the others so placid,
and Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing,
I felt for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a
fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and
golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing be-
hind it but panic and emptiness.”
“I don’t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as be-
ing genuine people, particularly the wife.”
“No, I don’t really think that. But Paul was so
broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things
made it worse, and I knew that it would never do —
never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others
30
Howards End
were practising strokes, ‘We rather lost our heads/ and
he looked better at once, though frightfully ashamed.
He began a speech about having no money to marry on,
but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then
he said, ‘ I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schle-
gel; I can’t think what came over me last night.*
And I said, ‘Nor what over me; never mind.’ And
then we parted — at least, until I remembered that I had
written straight off to tell you the night before, and
that frightened him again. I asked him to send a
telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or
something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but
Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station;
and Charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then
I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence,
for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I
wrote it out several times, he always said people would
suspect something. He took it himself at last, pre-
tending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and,
what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in
at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible
morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie
talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I can-
not think how I stood her all the other days. At last
Charles and his father started for the station, and then
came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was
coming by that train, and Paul — oh, rather horrible —
said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew.’*
“Knew what?”
“Everything; though we neither of us told her a word,
and she had known all along, I think.”
“Oh, she must have overheard you.”
“I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When
31
The Wilcox Episode
Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other
names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and
made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a
disgusting business. To think that — ” She sighed.
“To think that because you and a young man meet
for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and
anger,” supplied Margaret.
Helen nodded.
“I ’ve often thought about it, Helen. It ’s one of the
most interesting things in the world. The truth is that
there is a great outer life that you and I have never
touched — a life in which telegrams and anger count.
Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not su-
preme there. There love means marriage settlements,
death, death duties. So far I ’m clear. But here my
difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid,
often seems the real one — there ’s grit in it. It does
breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppi-
ness in the end?”
“Oh, Meg, that ’s what I felt, only not so clearly,
when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to
have their hands on all the ropes.”
“Don’t you feel it now?”
“I remember Paul at breakfast,” said Helen quietly.
“I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back
upon. I know that personal relations are the real
life, for ever and ever.”
“Amen!”
So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leav-
ing behind it memories of sweetness and horror that
mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had
commended. They talked to each other and to other
people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place
32
Howards End
with those whom they liked or could befriend. They
even attended public meetings. In their own fashion
they cared deeply about politics, though not as poli-
ticians would have us care; they desired that public life
should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Tem-
perance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible
cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward
Policy in Thibet with the keen attention that it merits,
and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire
with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are
the shows of history erected: the world would be a
grey, bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss
Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps
they shine out in it like stars.
A word on their origin. They were not “English to
the back-bone,” as their aunt had piously asserted. But,
on the other hand, they were not “Germans of the
dreadful sort.” Their father had belonged to a type that
was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than
now. He was not the aggressive German, so dear to the
English journalist, nor the domestic German, so dear
to the English wit. If one classed him at all it would be
as the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist,
inclined to be dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Im-
perialism of the air. Not that his life had been inactive.
He had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria,
France. But he had fought without visualising the re-
sults of victory. A hint of the truth broke on him after
Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of Napoleon
going grey; another when he entered Paris, and saw
the smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came —
it was all very immense, one had turned into an Empire
— but he knew that some quality had vanished for which
33
The Wilcox Episode
not all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Ger-
many a commercial Power, Germany a naval Power,
Germany with colonies here and a Forward Policy
there, and legitimate aspirations in the other place,
might appeal to others, and be fitly served by them ; for
his own part, he abstained from the fruits of victory,
and naturalised himself in England. The more earnest
members of his family never forgave him, and knew
that his children, though scarcely English of the dread-
ful sort, would never be German to the back-bone. He
had obtained work in one of our provincial universities,
and there married Poor Emily (or Die Engldnderin ,
as the case may be), and as she Jiad money, they pro-
ceeded to London, and came to know a good many peo-
ple. But his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It
was his hope that the clouds of materialism obscuring
the Fatherland would part in time, and the mild in-
tellectual light re-emerge. “Do you imply that we
Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?” exclaimed a
haughty and magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied,
“To my mind. You use the intellect, but you no longer
care about it. That I call stupidity.” As the haughty
nephew did not follow, he continued, “You only care
about the things that you can use, and therefore arrange
them in the following order: Money, supremely useful;
intellect, rather useful; imagination, of no use at all.
No” — for the other had protested — “your Pan-Ger-
manism is no more imaginative than is our Imperialism
over here. It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled
by bigness, to think that a thousand square miles are a
thousand times more wonderful than one square mile,
and that a million square miles are almost the same as
heaven. That is not imagination. No, it kills it.
3
34
Howards End
When their poets over here try to celebrate bigness they
are dead at once, and naturally. Your poets too are
dying, your philosophers, your musicians, to whom
Europe has listened for two hundred years. Gone.
Gone with the little courts that nurtured them — gone
with Esterhazy and Weimar. What? What ’s that?
Your universities? Oh yes, you have learned men, who
collect more facts than do the learned men of England.
They collect facts, and facts, and empires of facts. But
which of them will rekindle the light within?”
To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty
nephew’s knee.
It was a unique education for the little girls. The
haughty nephew would be at Wickham Place one day,
bringing with him an even haughtier wife, both con-
vinced that Germany was appointed by God to govern
the world. Aunt Juley would come the next day, con-
vinced that Great Britain had been appointed to the
same post by the same authority. Were both these
loud-voiced parties right? On one occasion they had
met, and Margaret with clasped hands had implored
them to argue the subject out in her presence. Whereat
they blushed, and began to talk about the weather.
“Papa,” she cried — she was a most offensive child —
“why will they not discuss this most clear question?”
Her father, surveying the parties grimly, replied that he
did not know. Putting her head on one side, Margaret
then remarked, “To me one of two things is very clear;
either God does not know his own mind about England
and Germany, or else these do not know the mind of
God.” A hateful little girl, but at thirteen she had
grasped a dilemma that most people travel through life
without perceiving. Her brain darted up and down; it
35
The Wilcox Episode
grew pliant and strong. Her conclusion was, that any
human being lies nearer to the unseen than any organi-
sation, and from this she never varied.
Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a
more irresponsible tread. In character she resembled
her sister, but she was pretty, and so apt to have a more
amusing time. People gathered round her more readily,
especially when they were new acquaintances, and she
did enjoy a little homage very much. When their
father died and they ruled alone at Wickham Place, she
often absorbed the whole of the company, while Margaret
— both were tremendous talkers — fell flat. Neither
sister bothered about this. Helen never apologised
afterwards, Margaret did not feel the slightest rancour.
But looks have their influence upon character. The
sisters were alike as little girls, but at the time of the
Wilcox episode their methods were beginning to diverge;
the younger was rather apt to entice people, and, in
enticing them, to be herself enticed; the elder went
straight ahead, and accepted an occasional failure as
part of the game.
Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now
an intelligent man of sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile.
/
CHAPTER V
The Concert at Queen’s Hall
It will be generally admitted that Beethoven’s Fifth
Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever
penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and condi-
tions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs.
Munt, and tap surreptitiously when the tunes come —
of course, not so as to disturb the others — or like Helen,
who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music’s flood ;
or like Margaret, who can only see the music; or like
Tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and
holds the full score open on his knee; or like their cousin,
Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers all the time that
Beethoven is edit Deutsch; or like Fraulein Mosebach’s
young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein
Mosebach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes
more vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a
noise is cheap at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you
hear it in the Queen’s Hall, dreariest music-room in
London, though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall,
Manchester; and even if you sit on the extreme left
of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the
rest of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap.
“Whom is Margaret talking to?” said Mrs. Munt, at
the conclusion of the first movement. She was again
in London on a visit to Wickham Place.
36
The Concert at Queen’s Hall 37
Helen looked down the long line of their party, and
said that she did not know.
“Would it be some young man or other whom she
takes an interest in?”
“I expect so,” Helen replied. Music enwrapped her,
and she could not enter into the distinction that divides
young men whom one takes an interest in from young
men whom one knows.
“You girls are so wonderful in always having
Oh dear! one must n’t talk.”
For the Andante had begun — very beautiful, but bear-
ing a family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes
that Beethoven had written, and, to Helen’s mind,
rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the
first movement from the heroes and goblins of the third.
She heard the tune through once, and then her attention
wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or
the architecture. Much did she censure the attenuated
Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen’s Hall,
inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in
sallow pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck.
“ How awful to marry a man like those Cupids ! ” thought
Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune,
so she heard him through once more, and then she smiled
at her Cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical
Music, could not respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked
as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there
were lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his
pince-nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid
a thick, white hand on either knee. And next to her was
Aunt Juley, so British, and wanting to tap. How in-
teresting that row of people was! What diverse in-
fluences had gone to the making! Here Beethoven,
38
Howards End
after humming and hawing with great sweetness, said
“ Heigho,” and the Andante came to an end. Applause,
and a round of “ wunderschoning ” and pracht volleying
from the German contingent. Margaret started talk-
ing to her new young man; Helen said to her aunt:
“Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the
goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing” ; and Tibby
implored the company generally to look out for the
transitional passage on the drum.
“On the what, dear?”
“On the drum, Aunt Juley.”
“No; look out for the part where you think you have
done with the goblins and they come back,” breathed
Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly
over the universe, from end to end. Others followed
him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that
that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely
observed in passing that there was no such thing as
splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude
of elephants dancing, they returned and made the ob-
servation for the second time. Helen could not con-
tradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the
same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse.
Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The
goblins were right.
Her brother raised his finger; it was the transitional
passage on the drum.
For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took
hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted.
He appeared in person. He gave them a little push,
and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a
minor, and then — he blew with his mouth and they
were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demi-
39
The Concert at Queen’s Hall
gods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance
broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory,
magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and
she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was
tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable;
conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by
the angels oi the utmost stars.
And the goblins- — they had not really been there at
all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and
unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel
them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt,
would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins
really had been there. They might return — and they
did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over
and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one
heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with in-
creased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from
end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and empti-
ness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might
fall.
Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He
built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the
second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He
brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the
youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid
vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth
Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were
there. They could return. He had said so bravely,
and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says
other things.
Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She
desired to be alone. The music had summed up to her
all that had happened or could happen in her career.
40
Howards End
She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be
superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and
they could have no other meaning, and life could have no
other meaning. She pushed right out of the building
and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing
the autumnal air, and then she strolled home.
“Margaret,” called Mrs. Munt, “is Helen all
right?”
“Oh yes.”
“She is always going away in the middle of a pro-
gramme,” said Tibby.
“The music has evidently moved her deeply,” said
Fraulein Mosebach.
“Excuse me,” said Margaret’s young man, who had
for some time been preparing a sentence, “but that lady
has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella.”
“Oh, good gracious me! — I am so sorry. Tibby, run
after Helen.”
“I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do.”
“Tibby, love, you must go.”
“It isn’t of any consequence,” said the young man,
in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella.
“ But of course it is. Tibby ! Tibby ! ’ ’
Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person
on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped
up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited
his full score in safety, it was “too late” to go after
Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one
could not move during their performance.
“My sister is so careless,” whispered Margaret.
“ Not at all,” replied the young man; but his voice was
dead and cold.
“If you would give me your address ”
4i
The Concert at Queen’s Hall
“Oh, not at all, not at all;” and he wrapped his great-
coat over his knees.
Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Mar-
garet’s ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling,
had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of
stealing an umbrella, j For this fool of a young man
thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing
the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his ad-
dress they would break into his rooms some midnight
or other and steal his walking-stick too'!) Most ladies
would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it
gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a
luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor
cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted him-
self out, she gave him her card and said, “That is where
we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella
after the concert, but I did n’t like to trouble you when
it has all been our fault.”
His face brightened a little when he saw that Wick-
ham Place was W. It was sad to see him corroded with
suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case
these well-dressed people were honest after all. She
took it as a good sign that he said to her, “It ’s a fine
programme this afternoon, is it not?” for this was the
remark with which he had originally opened, before the
umbrella intervened.
“The Beethoven ’s fine,” said Margaret, who was not
a female of the encouraging type. “I don’t like the
Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first —
and ugh! I don’t like this Elgar that ’s coming.”
“What, what?” called Herr Liesecke, overhearing.
“The ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ will not be fine?”
“Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!” cried her aunt.
42
Howards End
“Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop
for ‘Pomp and Circumstance,’ and you are undoing all
my work. I am so anxious for him to hear what we
are doing in music. Oh, you must n’t run down our
English composers, Margaret.”
“For my part, I have heard the composition at Stet-
tin,” said Fraulein Mosebach, “on two occasions. It
is dramatic, a little.”
“Frieda, you despise English music. You know you
do. And English art. And English literature, except
Shakespeare, and he ’s a German. Very well, Frieda,
you may go.”
The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved
by a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled
from “Pomp and Circumstance.”
“We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is
true,” said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and
reached the gangway just a^ the music started.
“Margaret — ” loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. £
“Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her
beautiful little bag behind her on the seat.”
Sure enough, there was Frieda’s reticule, containing
her address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of
London, and her money.
“Oh, what a bother — what a family we are! Fr —
frieda!”
“Hush!” said all those who thought the music fine.
“But it’s the number they want in Finsbury Circus
i >
“ Might I — could n’t I ” said the suspicious young
man, and got very red.
“Oh, I would be so grateful.”
He took the bag — money clinking inside it — and
43
The Concert at Queen’s Hall
slipped up the gangway with it. He was just in time
to catch them at the swing-door, and he received a pretty
smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her
cavalier. He returned to his seat upsides with the world.
The trust that they had reposed in him was trivial, but
he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that
probably he would not be “had” over his umbrella.
This young man had been “had” in the past badly,
perhaps everwhelmingly — and now most of his energies
went in defending himself against the unknown. But
this afternoon — perhaps on account of music — he per-
ceived that one must slack off occasionally or what is the
good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk,
was as safe as most things, and he would risk it.
So when the concert was over and Margaret said,
“We live quite near; I am going there now. Could
i you walk round with me, and we ’ll find your umbrella?”
he said, “Thank you,” peaceably, and followed her out
of the Queen’s Hall. She wished that he was not
so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a
lady’s programme for her — his class was near enough
her own for its manners to vex her. But she found
him interesting on the whole — every one interested
the Schlegels on the whole at that time — and while her
lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him
to tea.
“How tired one gets after music!” she began.
“Do you find the atmosphere of Queen’s Hall
oppressive?”
“Yes, horribly.”
“But surely the atmosphere of Co vent Garden is
even more oppressive.”
“Do you go there much?”
44
Howards End
“When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the
Royal Opera.”
Helen would have exclaimed, “So do I. I love the
gallery,” and thus have endeared herself to the young
man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had
an almost morbid horror of “drawing people out,” of
“making things go.” She had been to the gallery at
Co vent Garden, but she did not “attend” it, preferring
the more expensive seats ; still less did she love it. So she
made no reply.
“This year I have been three times — to ‘Faust,*
‘Tosca,’ and — ” Was it “Tannhouser” or “Tann-
hoyser”? Better not risk the word.
Margaret disliked “Tosca” and “Faust.” And so,
for one reason and another, they walked on in silence,
chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting
into difficulties with her nephew.
“ I do in a way remember the passage, Tibby, but when
every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out
one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and
Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull
note from beginning to end. I only wish that our Ger-
man friends had stayed till it finished.”
“But surely you have n’t forgotten the drum steadily
beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?” came Tibby’s voice.
“No one could. It ’s unmistakable.”
“A specially loud part?” hazarded Mrs. Munt. “Of
course I do not go in for being musical,” she added, the
shot failing. “I only care for music — a very different
thing. But still I will say this for myself — I do know
when I like a thing and when I don’t. Some people are
the same about pictures. They can go into a picture
gallery — Miss Conder can — and say straight off what they
The Concert at Queen’s Hall 45
feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But
music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When
it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you,
Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There
was a thing — something about a faun in French — which
Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most
tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my
opinion too.”
“Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think
music is so different from pictures?”
“I — I should have thought so, kind of,” he said.
“So should I. Now, my sister declares they ’re just
the same. We have great arguments over it. She
says I ’m dense; I say she ’s sloppy.” Getting under
way, she cried: “Now, doesn’t it seem absurd to you?
What is the good of the Arts if they ’re interchangeable?
What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the
eye? Helen’s one aim is to translate tunes into the
language of painting, and pictures into the language of
music. It ’s very ingenious, and she says several pretty
; things in the process, but what ’s gained, I ’d like to
know? Oh, it ’s all rubbish, radically false. If Monet ’s
really Debussy, and Debussy’s really Monet, neither
gentleman is worth his salt — that ’s my opinion.”
Evidently these sisters quarrelled.
“Now, this very symphony that we’ve just been
having — she won’t let it alone. She labels it with
meanings from start to finish ; turns it into literature. I
wonder if the day will ever return when music will be
treated as music. Yet I don’t know. There ’s my
brother — behind us. He treats music as music, and
oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than any one,
simply furious.' With him I daren’t even argue.”
46
Howards End
An unhappy family, if talented.
“But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has
done more than any man in the nineteenth century to-
wards the muddling of the arts. I do feel that music is in
a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily
interesting. Every now and then in history there do
come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up
all the wells of thought at once. For a moment it ’s
splendid. Such a splash as never was. But afterwards
— such a lot of mud ; and the wells — as it were, they com-
municate with each other too easily now, and not one of
them will run quite clear. That ’s what Wagner ’s done.’*
Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like
birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have
caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to
pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well in-
formed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady
started! But it would take one years. With an hour
at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how
was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who
had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain
might be full of names, he might have even heard of
Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not
string them together into a sentence, he could not make
them “tell,” he could not quite forget about his stolen
umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble.
Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted,
with the steady beat of a drum. “I suppose my um-
brella will be all right,” he was thinking. “I don’t
really mind about it. I will think about music instead.
I suppose my umbrella will be all right.” Earlier in
the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to
have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had
The Concert at Queen’s Hall 47
wondered, “Shall I try to do without a programme? ”
There had always been something to worry him ever since
he could remember, always something that distracted
him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty,
and, therefore, Margaret’s speeches did flutter away from
him like birds. )
Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, “Don’t
you think so? don’t you feel the same?” And once she
stopped, and said, “Oh, do interrupt me ! ” which terrified
him. She did not attract him, though she filled him
with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all
teeth and eyes, her references to her sister and her
brother were uncharitable. For all her cleverness and
I culture, she was probably one of those soulless, atheisti-
1 cal women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli.
It was surprising (and alarming) that she should sud-
denly say, “I do hope that you ’ll come in and have
some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you
so far out of your way.”
They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had
set, and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a
! gentle haze. To the right the fantastic sky-line of the
flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the
left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet
against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latch-key.
! Of course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her um-
brella by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped
at the dining-room window.
“Helen! Let us in!”
“All right,” said a voice.
“You ’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.”
“Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door.
“Oh, what ’s that? Do come in! How do you do?”
48
Howards End
• “ Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took
this gentleman’s umbrella away from Queen’s Hall, and
he has had the trouble of coming round for it.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying.
She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and
had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. “I
do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry!
Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a
nobbly? Mine ’s a nobbly — at least, I think it is.”
The light was turned on, and they began to search the
hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth
Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries.
“ Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s
silk top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive
fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I’ve
knocked the In-and-Out card down. Where ’s Frieda?
Tibby, why don’t you ever — No, I can’t remember
^ what I was going to say. That was n’t it, but do tell
the maids to hurry tea up. What about this um-
brella?” She opened it. “No, it ’s all gone along the
seams. It ’s! Ian appalling umbrella. It must be mine.”
But it was not.
He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks,
and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk.
“But if you will stop — ” cried Margaret. “Now,
Helen, how stupid you ’ve been!”
“Whatever have I done?”
“ Don’t you see that you ’ve frightened him away? I
meant him to stop to tea. You ought n’t to talk about
stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes
getting so miserable. No, it ’s not a bit of good now.”
For Helen had darted out into the street, shouting,
“Oh, do stop!”
49
The Concert at Queen’s Hall
“I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt.
“We know nothing about the young man, Margaret,
and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little
things.”
But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You
make me more and more ashamed. I ’d rather he had
been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than that
I — Well, I must shut the front-door, I suppose.
One more failure for Helen.”
“Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as
rent,” said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not
understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent’? It was
one of father’s words — Rent to the ideal, to his own faith
in human nature. You remember how he would trust
strangers, and if they fooled him he would say, ‘ It ’s
better to be fooled than to be suspicious ’ — that the con-
fidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-con- j r
fidence trick is the work of the devilj}
“I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs.
Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add, “It was
lucky that your father married a wife with money.”
But this was unkind, and she contented herself with,
“Why, he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture
as well.”
“Better that he had,” said Helen stoutly.
“No, I agree with Aunt Juley,” said Margaret. “I ’d
rather mistrust people than lose my little Ricketts.
There are limits.”
Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had
stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones for tea.
He warmed the teapot — almost too deftly — rejected the
orange pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided,
poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up
4
50
Howards End
with really boiling water, and now called to the ladies
to be quick or they would lose the aroma.
“All right, Auntie Tibby,” called Heien, while
Margaret, thoughtful again, said: “In a way, I wish
we had a real boy in the house — the kind of boy who
cares for men. It would make entertaining so much
easier.”
“So do I,” said her sister. “Tibby only cares for
cultured females singing Brahms.” And when they
joined him she said rather sharply: “Why didn’t you
make that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do
the host a little, you know. You ought to have taken his
hat and coaxed him into stopping, instead of letting him
be swamped by screaming women.”
Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his
forehead.
“Oh, it ’s no good looking superior. I mean what I
say.”
“Leave Tibby alone!” said Margaret, who could not
bear her brother to be scolded.
“Here’s the house a regular hen-coop!” grumbled
Helen.
“Oh, my dear!” protested Mrs. Munt. “How can
you say such dreadful things! The number of men
you get here has always astonished me. If there is any
danger it ’s the other way round.”
“Yes, but it ’s the wrong sort of men, Helen means.”
“No, I don’t,” corrected Helen. “We get the right
sort of man, but the wrong side of him, and I say that ’s
Tibby’s fault. There ought to be a something about
the house — an — I don’t know what.”
“A touch of the W’s, perhaps?”
Helen put out her tongue.
5i
The Concert at Queen’s Hall
“Who are the W’s?” asked Tibby.
“The W’s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley
know about and you don’t, so there!”
“I suppose that ours is a female house,” said Margaret,
“and one must just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don’t
mean that this house is full of women. I am trying to
say something much more clever. I mean that it was
irrevocably feminine, even in father’s time. Now I ’m
sure you understand! Well, I ’ll give you another ex-
ample. It ’ll shock you, but I don’t care. Suppose
Queen Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that the guests
had been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Mere-
dith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmo-
sphere of that dinner would have been artistic ? Heavens,
no! The very chairs on which they sat would have
seen to that. So with out house — it must be feminine,
and all we can do is to see that it is n’t effeminate. Just
as another house that I can mention, but won’t, sounded
irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do is to
i see that it is n’t brutal.”
“That house being the W’s house, I presume,” said
Tibby.
“You ’re not going to be told about the W’s, my
child,” Helen cried, “so don’t you think it. And on the
j other hand, I don’t the least mind if you find out, so
don’t you think you ’ve done anything clever, in either
. case. Give me a cigarette.”
“You do what you can for the house,” said Margaret.
“The drawing-room reeks of smoke.”
“If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn
masculine. Atmosphere is probably a question of
touch and go. Even at Queen Victoria’s dinner-party
— if something had been just a little different — perhaps
52
Howards End
if she ’d worn a clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a
magenta satin ”
“With an India shawl over her shoulders ”
“Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin ”
Bursts of disloyal laughter — you must remember that
they are half German — greeted these suggestions, and
Margaret said pensively, “How inconceivable it would
be if the Royal Family cared about Art.” And the con-
versation drifted away and away, and Helen’s cigarette
turned to a spot in the darkness, and the great flats op-
posite were sown with lighted windows which vanished
and were relit again, and vanished incessantly. Beyond
them the thoroughfare roared gently — a tide that could
never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the
smokes of Wapping, the moon was rising.
“That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken
that young man into the dining-room, at all events.
Only the majolica plate — and that is so firmly set in the
wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea.”
For that little incident had impressed the three women
more than might be supposed. It remained as a goblin
footfall, as a hint that all is not for the best in the best
of all possible worlds, and that beneath these super-
structures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed
boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has
left no address behind him, and no name.
CHAPTER VI
Leonard and Jacky
We are not concerned with the very poor. They are
unthinkable and only to be approached by the statistician
or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with
those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.
The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of
gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see
it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped in,
and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and
would admit it; he would have died sooner than con-
fess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid
of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there
is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as
the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy,
nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike
underfed, because he was poor, and because he was
modern they were always craving better food. Had he
lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilisa-
tions of the past, he would have had a definite status, his
rank and his income would have corresponded. But in
his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing
the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming, “All
men are equal — all men, that is to say, who possess
umbrellas,” and so he was obliged to assert gentility,
53
54
Howards End
lest he slip into the abyss where nothing counts, and
the statements of Democracy are inaudible.
As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care
was to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels.
Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them
in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real
ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-
natured and cold. At each step his feeling of superiority
increased. Would a real lady have talked about steal-
ing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all,
and if he had gone into the house they would have
clapped a chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He
walked on complacently as far as the Houses of Parlia-
ment. There an empty stomach asserted itself, and
told him that he was a fool.
“Evening, Mr. Bast.”
“Evening, Mr. Dealtry.”
“Nice evening.”
“Evening.”
Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard
stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far
as a penny would take him, or whether he would walk.
He decided to walk — it is no good giving in, and he had
spent money enough at Queen’s Hall — and he walked
over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas’s
Hospital, and through the immense tunnel that passes
under the South-Western main line at Vauxhall. In the
tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the trains.
A sharp pain darted through his head, and he was con-
scious of the exact form of his eye sockets. He pushed
on for another mile, and did not slacken speed until he
stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road
which was at present his home.
55
Leonard and Jacky
Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to
right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its
hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheap-
ness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road
two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an
old house was being demolished to accommodate an-
other pair. It was the kind of scene that may be
observed all over London, whatever the locality — bricks
and mortar rising and falling with the restlessness of the
water in a fountain as the city receives more and more
men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out
like a fortress, and command, for a little, an extensive
view. Only for a little. Plans were out for the erection
of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few
years, and all the flats in either road might be pulled
down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present un-
imaginable, might arise where they had fallen.
“ Evening, Mr. Bast.”
“Evening, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in
Manchester.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in
Manchester,” repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the
Sunday paper, in which the calamity in question had
just been announced to him.
“Ah, yes,” said Leonard, who was not going to let on
that he had not bought a Sunday paper.
“If this kind of thing goes on the population of Eng-
land will be stationary in i960.”
“You don’t say so.”
“I call it a very serious thing, eh?”
“Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham.”
56
Howards End
“Good-evening, Mr. Bast.”
Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned,
not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house
agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar.
He opened the door, and cried, “Hullo ! ” with the pseudo
geniality of the Cockney. There was no reply. “Hul-
lo!” he repeated. The sitting-room was empty, though
the electric light had been left burning. A look of
relief came over his face, and he flung himself into the
armchair.
The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair,
two other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a
cosy comer. Of the walls, one was occupied by the
window, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling
with Cupids. Opposite the window was the door, and
beside the door a bookcase, while over the piano there
extended one of the masterpieces of Maud Goodman.
It was an amorous and not unpleasant little hole when
the curtains were drawn, and the lights turned on, and
the gas-stove unlit. But it struck that shallow make-
shift note that is so often heard in the modern dwell-
ing-place. It had been too easily gained, and could be
relinquished too easily.
As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the
three-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourably
poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace, i
and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and
picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady
called Jacky, and had been taken at the time when
young ladies called Jacky were often photographed with
their mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended
along either of Jacky’s jaws, and positively weighed
her head sideways, so large were they and so numerous.
57
Leonard and Jacky
Take my word for it, that smile was simply stunning,
and it is only you and I who will be fastidious, and com-
plain that true joy begins in the eyes, and that the eyes
of Jacky did not accord with her smile, but were anxious
and hungry.
Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and
cut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell
on the frame, another followed, spilling over on to the
exposed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and
dashed into the kitchen, where he bathed his hands.
The kitchen was the same size as the sitting-room;
beyond it was a bedroom. This completed his home.
He was renting the flat furnished; of all the objects that
encumbered it none were his own except the photograph
frame, the Cupids, and the books.
“Damn, damn, damnation!” he murmured, together
with such other words as he had learnt from older men.
Then he raised his hand to his forehead and said, “Oh,
damn it all — ” which meant something different. He
pulled himself together. He drank a little tea, black
and silent, that still survived upon an upper shelf. He
swallowed some dusty crumbs of a cake. Then he went
back to the sitting-room, settled himself anew, and began
to read a volume of Ruskin.
“Seven miles to the north of Venice ”
How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How
supreme its command of admonition and of poetry!
The rich man is speaking to us from his gondola.
“Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand
which nearer the city rise little above low- water mark at-
tain by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves at last
into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into shape-
less mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea,”
58
Howards End
Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin; he
understood him to be the greatest master of English
Prose. He read forward steadily, occasionally making a
few notes.
“Let us consider a little each of these characters in
succession, and first (for of the shafts enough has been
said already), what is very peculiar to this church — its
luminousness.”
Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sentence?
Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life? Could he
introduce it, with modifications, when he next wrote a
letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example:
“Let us consider a little each of these characters in
succession, and first (for of the absence of ventilation
enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to
this flat — its obscurity.”
Something told him that the modifications would not
do; and that something, had he known it, was the spirit
of English Prose. “My flat is dark as well as stuffy.”
Those were the words for him.
And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping melo-
diously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high purpose,
full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the love of
men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and insist-
ent in Leonard’s life. For it was the voice of one who
had never been dirty or hungry, and had not guessed
successfully what dirt and hunger are.
Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that
he was being done good to, and that if he kept on with
Ruskin, and the Queen’s Hall Concerts, and some
pictures by Watts, he would one day push his head out
of the grey waters and see the universe. He believed in
sudden conversion, a belief which may be right, but
59
Leonard and Jacky
which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind.
It is the basis of much popular religion ; in the domain of
business it dominates the Stock Exchange, and becomes
that “bit of luck” by which all successes and failures are
explained. “If only I had a bit of luck, the whole
thing would come straight. ... He ’s got a most mag-
nificent place down at Streatham and a 20 h. p. Fiat,
but then, mind you, he *s had luck. ...I’m sorry the
wife ’s so late, but she never has any luck over catching
trains.” Leonard was superior to these people; he did
believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the
change that he desired. But of a heritage that may ex-
pand gradually, he had no conception; he hoped to come
to Culture suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to
come to Jesus. Those Miss Schlegels had come to it;
they had done the trick; their hands were upon the ropes,
once and for all. And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as
well as stuffy.
Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut
up Margaret’s card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened
the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to
say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was
awesome. She seemed all strings and bell-pulls — rib-
bons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and caught —
and a boa of azure feathers hung round her neck, with
the ends uneven. Her throat was bare, wound with
a double row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows,
and might again be detected at the shoulder, through
cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, resembled
those punnets, covered with flannel, which we sowed
with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which ger-
minated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back
of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are
6o
Howards End
too complicated to describe, but one system went down
her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another,
created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her fore-
head. The face — the face does not signify. It was the
face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were
not so numerous as the photographer had suggested, and
certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her prime,
whatever that prime may have been. She was descend-
ing quicker than most women into the colourless years,
and the look in her eyes confessed it.”
“What ho ! ” said Leonard, greeting the apparition with
much spirit, and helping it off with its boa.
Jacky, in husky tones, replied, “What ho!”
“Been out?” he asked. The question sounds super-
fluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady
answered, “No,” adding, “Oh, I am so tired.”
“You tired?”
“Eh?”
“I ’m tired,” said he, hanging the boa up.
“Oh, Len, I am so tired.”
“ I ’ve been to that classical concert I told you about,”
said Leonard.
“What ’s that?”
“I came back as soon as it was over.”
“Any one been round to our place?” asked Jacky.
“Not that I ’ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham out-
side, and we passed a few remarks.”
“What, not Mr. Cunningham?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham.”
“Yes. Mr. Cunningham.”
“I ’ve been out to tea at a lady friend’s.”
Her secret being at last given to the world, and the
6i
Leonard and Jacky
name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky
made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring
art of conversation. She never had been a great talker.
Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her
smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was
“ On the shelf,
On the shelf,
Boys, boys, I ’m on the shelf,”
she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts
of song (of which the above is an example) still issued
from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. J
She sat down on Leonard’s knee, and began to fondle
him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three,
and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say
anything. Then she said, “Is that a book you ’re read-
ing?” and he said, “That ’s a book,” and drew it from
her unreluctant grasp. Margaret’s card fell out of it.
It fell face downwards, and he murmured, “Book-
marker.”
“Len ”
“What is it?” he asked, a little wearily, for she only
had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his
knee.
“You do love me?”
“Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such
questions!”
“But you do love me, Len, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
A pause. The other remark was still due.
“Len ”
“Well? What is it?”
“Len, you will make it all right?”
62
Howards End
“I can’t have you ask me that again,” said the boy,
flaring up into a sudden passion. “I’ve promised to
marry you when I ’m of age, and that ’s enough. My
word ’s my word. I ’ve promised to marry you as soon
as ever I ’m twenty-one, and I can’t keep on being wor-
ried. I ’ve worries enough. It is n’t likely I ’d throw
you over, let alone my word, when I ’ve spent all this
money. Besides, I ’m an Englishman, and I never go
back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course
I ’ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me.”
“When ’s your birthday, Len?”
“I’ve told you again and again, the eleventh of
November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one
must get supper, I suppose.”
Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see
to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp
puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began
to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into
the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking
with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his
temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to
complain bitterly.
“It really is too bad when a fellow is n’t trusted. It
makes one feel so wild, when I ’ve pretended to the peo-
ple here that you ’re my wife — all right, all right, you
shall be my wife — and I ’ve bought you the ring to wear,
and I ’ve taken this flat furnished, and it ’s far more than
I can afford, and yet you are n’t content, and I ’ve also
not told the truth when I ’ve written home.” He low-
ered his voice. “He ’d stop it.” In a tone of horror,
that was a little luxurious, he repeated: “My brother ’d
stop it. I ’m going against the whole world, Jacky.
“That ’s what I am, Jacky, I don’t take any heed of
63
Leonard and Jacky
what any one says. I just go straight forward, I do.
That ’s always been my way. I ’m not one of your weak
knock-kneed chaps. If a woman ’s in trouble, I don’t
leave her in the lurch. That ’s not my street. No,
thank you.
“I ’ll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal
about improving myself by means of Literature and
Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when
you came in I was reading Ruskin’s Stones of Venice .
I don’t say this to boast, but just to show you the kind
of man I am. I can tell you, I enjoyed that classical
concert this afternoon.”
To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent.
When supper was ready — and not before — she emerged
from the bedroom, saying: “But you do love me, don’t
you ? ”
They began with a soup square, which Leonard had
just dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by
the tongue — a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little
jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the
bottom — ending with another square dissolved in water
(jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier
in the day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally
looking at her man with those anxious eyes, to which
nothing else in her appearance corresponded, and which
yet seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed
to convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing
meal.
After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a
few statements. She observed that her “likeness” had
been broken. He found occasion to remark, for the
second time, that he had come straight back home after
the concert at Queen’s Hall. Presently she sat upon his
64
Howards End
knee. The inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and
fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads,
and the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to
sing, “Hark, my soul, it is the Lord.”
“That tune fairly gives me the hump,” said Leonard.
Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she
thought it a lovely tune.
“No; I ’ll play you something lovely. . Get up, dear,
for a minute.”
He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg.
He played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was
not without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she ’d
be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests
possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had
been said about music by that odd Miss Schlegel — the
one that twisted her face about so when she spoke.
Then the thoughts grew sad and envious. There was the
girl named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and
the German girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and
Herr some one, and Aunt some one, and the brother —
all, all with their hands on the ropes. They had all
passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham Place
to some ample room, whither he could never follow them,
not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was no good,
this continual aspiration. Some are born cultured; the
rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see
life steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of
him.
From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called,
“Len?”
“You in bed?” he asked, his forehead twitching.
“M’m.”
“All right.”
Leonard and Jacky
65
Presently she called him again.
“I must clean my boots ready for the morning,” he
answered.
Presently she called him again.
“I rather want to get this chapter done.”
“What?”
He closed his ears against her.
“What ’s that?”
“All right, Jacky, nothing; I ’m reading a book.”
“What?”
“What?” he answered, catching her degraded
deafness.
Presently she called him again.
Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was
ordering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It oc-
curred to him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons,
that the power of Nature could not be shortened by the
folly, nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery
of such as Leonard.
5
CHAPTER VII
The New Neighbours
“Oh, Margaret,” cried her aunt next morning, “such a
most unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get
you alone.”
The most unfortunate thing was not very serious.
One of the flats in the ornate block opposite had been
taken furnished by the Wilcox family, “coming up, no
doubt, in the hope of getting into London society.”
That Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the mis-
fortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested
in the flats, that she watched their every mutation with
unwearying care. In theory she despised them — they
took away that old-world look — they cut off the sun —
flats house a flashy type of person. But if the truth had
been known, she found her visits to Wickham Place
twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen,
and would in a couple of days learn more about them
than her nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in
a couple of years. She would stroll across and make
friends with the porters, and inquire what the rents were,
exclaiming for example: “What! a hundred and twenty
for a basement? You’ll never get it!” And they
would answer : * ‘ One can but try, madam. ’ * The passen-
66
67
The New Neighbours
ger lifts, the provision lifts, the arrangement for coals
(a great temptation for a dishonest porter), were all
familiar matters to her, and perhaps a relief from the
politico-economical-sesthetic atmosphere that reigned at
the Schlegels’.
Margaret received the information calmly, and did
not agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen’s
life.
“Oh, but Helen isn’t a girl with no interests,” she
explained. “She has plenty of other things and other
people to think about. She made a false start with the
Wilcoxes, and she ’ll be as willing as we are to have
nothing more to do with them. ”
“For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk.
Helen ’ll have to have something more to do with them,
now that they ’re all opposite. She may meet that Paul
in the street. She cannot very well not bow. ”
“Of course she must bow. But look here ; let ’s do the
flowers. I was going to say, the will to be interested
in him has died, and what else matters? I look on that
disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the
killing of a nerve in Helen. It ’s dead, and she ’ll
never be troubled with it again. The only things that
matter are the things that interest one. Bowing, even
calling and leaving cards, even a dinner-party — we can
do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agree-
able; but the other thing, the one important thing —
never again. Don’t you see?”
Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was
making a most questionable statement — that any emo-
tion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die.
“I also have the honour to inform you that the Wil-
coxes are bored with us, I did n’t tell you at the time —
68
Howards End
it might have made you angry, and you had enough to
worry you — but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W, and apolo-
gised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She
didn’t answer it.”
“How very rude!”
“I wonder. Or was it sensible?”
“No, Margaret, most rude.”
“In either case one can class it as reassuring. ”
Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage
on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most.
Other regrets crowded upon her : for instance, how magni-
ficently she would have cut Charles if she had met him
face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order
to the porter — and very common he looked in a tall hat.
But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and
though she had cut his back, she could not regard this
as a telling snub.
“But you will be careful, won’t you?” she exhorted.
“Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful.”
“And Helen must be careful, too.”
“Careful over what?” cried Helen, at that moment
coming into the room with her cousin.
“Nothing ” said Margaret, seized with a momentary
awkwardness.
“Careful over what, Aunt Juley?”
Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. “It is only that a
certain family, whom we know by name but do not
mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert,
have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons — where
the plants are in the balcony.”
Helen began some laughing reply, and then discon-
certed them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so dis-
concerted that she exclaimed, “What, Helen, you don’t
The New Neighbours 69
mind them coming, do you?” and deepened the blush to
crimson.
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Helen a little crossly.
“It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave
about it, when there ’s nothing to be grave about at all. ”
“I’m not grave,” protested Margaret, a little cross
in her turn.
“Well, you look grave; does n’t she, Frieda?”
“I don’t feel grave, that’s all I can say; you’re going
quite on the wrong tack. ”
“No, she does not feel grave,” echoed Mrs. Munt.
“I can bear witness to that. She disagrees ”
“Hark!” interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. “I hear
Bruno entering the hall.”
For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call
for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall
— in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes.
But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that
she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down
below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish
arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if
to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she
stopped in the doorway and said :
“ Did you say the Mathesons’ flat, Aunt Juley ? How
wonderful you are! I never knew that the name of the
woman who laced too tightly was Matheson.”
“Come, Helen,” said her cousin.
“Go, Helen,” said her aunt; and continued to Mar-
garet almost in the same breath: “Helen cannot deceive
me. She does mind. ”
“Oh, hush!” breathed Margaret. “Frieda ’ll hear
you, and she can be so tiresome.”
“She minds,” persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thought-
70
Howards End
fully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthe-
mums out of the vases. “ I knew she ’d mind — and I ’m
sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful
coarse-grained people! I know more about them than
you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you
that motor drive — well, you ’d have reached the house
a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don’t know what
you are in for! They’re all bottled up against the
drawing-room window. There ’s Mrs. Wilcox — I ’ve
seen her. There’s Paul. There’s Evie, who is a minx.
There ’s Charles — I saw him to start with. And who
would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-
coloured face be?’
“Mr. Wilcox, possibly.’’
“I knew it. And there ’s Mr. Wilcox.”
“It ’s a shame to call his face copper colour,” com-
plained Margaret. “He has a remarkably good com-
plexion for a man of his age.”
Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to
concede Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on
from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should
pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her.
“Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but
the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there ’s no
need for plans. ”
“It ’s as well to be prepared.”
“No — it ’s as well not to be prepared.”
“Why?”
“Because ”
Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland.
She could not explain in so many words, but she felt
that those who prepare for all the emergencies of life
beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of
7i
The New Neighbours
joy. It is necessary to prepare for an examination, or
a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price of stock:
those who attempt human relations must adopt another
method, or fail. ‘‘Because I ’d sooner risk it,” was her
lame conclusion.
“But imagine the evenings,” exclaimed her aunt,
pointing to the Mansions with the spout of the watering-
can. “Turn the electric light on here or there, and it ’s
almost the same room. One evening they may forget
to draw their blinds down, and you’ll see them; and the
next, you yours, and they ’ll see you. Impossible to
sit out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants,
or even speak. Imagine going out of the front-door, and
they come out opposite at the same moment. And yet
you tell me that plans are unnecessary, and you ’d
rather risk it. ”
“I hope to risk things all my life. ”
“Oh, Margaret, most dangerous.”
“But after all,” she continued with a smile, “there ’s
never any great risk as long as you have money. ”
“Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!”
“Money pads the edges of things, ” said Miss Schlegel.
“God help those who have none. ”
“But this is something quite new!” said Mrs. Munt,
who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and
was especially attracted by those that are portable.
“New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it
for years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money
as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we
forget its very existence. It ’s only when we see some
one near us tottering that we realise all that an indepen-
dent income means. Last night, when we were talking
up here round the fire, I began to think that the very
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Howards End
soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss
is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin. ”
“I call that rather cynical.* *
“So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember,
when we are tempted to criticise others, that we are
standing on these islands, and that most of the others
are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot
always reach those whom they want to love, and they
can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no
longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June,
if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and
could n’t invoke railways and motor-cars to part them. ”
“That’s more like Socialism,” said Mrs. Munt
suspiciously.
“Call it what you like. I call it going through iife
with one ’s hand spread open on the table. I ’m tired
of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think
it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that
keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year
upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and
Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds
crumble away into the sea they are renewed — from the
sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the
thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches ;
and because we don’t want to steal umbrellas ourselves,
we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them
and do steal them sometimes, and that what’s a joke
up here is down there reality ”
“There they go — there goes Fraulein Mosebach.
Really, for a German she does dress charmingly.
Oh! ”
“What is it?”
“Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes’ flat.”
73
The New Neighbours
“Why should n’t she?”
“I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was
it you were saying about reality?”
“I had worked round to myself, as usual,” answered
Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.
“Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich
or for the poor?”
“Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty
or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches! ”
“For riches!” echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were,
at last secured her nut.
“Yes. For riches. Money for ever!”
“So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my ac-
quaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you
agree with us. ”
“Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have
talked theories, you have done the flowers.”
“Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you
in more important things.”
“Well, would you be very kind? Would you come
round with me to the registry office? There ’s a house-
maid who won’t say yes but does n’t say no. ”
On their way thither they too looked up at the Wil-
coxes’ flat. Evie was in the balcony, “staring most
rudely,” according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a
nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof
against a passing encounter, but — Margaret began to
lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if
the family were living close against her eyes? And
Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another
fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp,
and quite capable of remarking, “You love one of the
young gentlemen opposite, yes?” The remark would
74
Howards End
be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough,
may become true; just as the remark, “England and
Germany are bound to fight,” renders war a little more
likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made
the more readily by the gutter press of either nation.
Have the private emotions also their gutter press?
Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Juley
and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might,
by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the
desires of June. Into a repetition — they could not do
more ; they could not lead her into lasting love. They
were — she saw it clearly — Journalism; her father, with
all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been Litera-
ture, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his
daughter rightly.
The registry office was holding its morning reception.
A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel
waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an
insidious “temporary, ” being rejected by genuine house-
maids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure
depressed her, and though she forgot the failure, the
depression remained. On her way home she again
glanced up at the Wilcoxes’ flat, and took the rather
matronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen.
“Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries
you.”
“ If what?” said Helen, who was washing her hands for
lunch.
“The Ws’ coming.”
“ No, of course not. ”
“Really?”
“Really.” Then she admitted that she was a little
worried on Mrs. Wilcox’s account ; she implied that Mrs.
75
The New Neighbours
Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be
pained by things that never touched the other members
of that clan. “ I shan’t mind if Paul points at our house
and says, ‘There lives the girl who tried to catch me.’
But she might. ”
“ If even that worries you, we could arrange something.
There ’s no reason we should be near people who dis-
please us or whom we displease, thanks to our money.
We might even go away for a little. ”
“Well, I am going away. Frieda ’s just asked me to
Stettin, and I shan’t be back till after the New Year.
Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether?
Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a
fuss?”
“ Oh, I ’m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I
minded nothing, but really I — I should be bored if you
fell in love with the same man twice and” — she cleared
her throat — “you did go red, you know, when Aunt
Juley attacked you this morning. I should n’t have
referred to it otherwise. ”
But Helen’s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy
hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and
nohow, would she again fall in love with any of the
Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals.
CHAPTER VIII
Margaret Takes the Bull by the Homs
The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox,
which was to develop so quickly and with such strange
results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer,
in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at
the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of
her husband and Helen, may have detected in the other
and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy,
a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such
things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss
Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret
whose presence she had particularly desired. All this
is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear indications
behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wick-
ham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen
was going with her cousin to Stettin.
“Helen!” cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones
(she was now in her cousin’s confidence) — “his mother
has forgiven you!” And then, remembering that in
England the new-comer ought not to call before she is
called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disap-
proval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame.
“Bother the whole family!” snapped Margaret.
“Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish
your packing. Why can’t the woman leave us alone?”
76
77
Margaret Takes Action
“I don’t know what I shall do with Meg,” Helen
retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. She ’s got Wilcox
and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don’t love the
young gentleman; I don’t love the young gentleman,
Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?”
“ Most certainly her love has died, ” asserted Fraulein
Mosebach.
“Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not pre-
vent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return
the call.”
Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach,
who thought her extremely amusing, did the same.
“Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg’s going to return
the call, and I can’t. ‘Cos why? ’Cos I ’m going to
German-eye. ”
“If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you
are n’t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me. ”
“But, Meg, Meg, I don’t love the young gentleman;
I don’t love the young — O lud, who ’s that coming down
the stairs? I vow ’t is my brother. O crimini!”
A male — even such a male as Tibby — was enough to
stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing
among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side
of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin
much about Paul ; she told her brother nothing. It was
not prudishness, for she now spoke of “the Wilcox
ideal” with laughter, and even with a growing brutality.
Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any
news that did not concern himself. It was rather the
feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men,
and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier,
it would become important on that. So she stopped, or
rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-
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Howards End
suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mose-
bach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the
banisters to Margaret, “It is all right — she does not
love the young man — he has not been worthy of her. ”
“Yes, I know; thanks very much.”
“I thought I did right to tell you.”
“Ever so many thanks.”
“What ’s that?” asked Tibby. No one told him, and
he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums.
That evening Margaret took decisive action. The
house was very quiet, and the fog — we are in November
now — pressed against the windows like an excluded
ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had
gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched
on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking.
Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally
marshalled them all in review. The practical person,
who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows
nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this
was the way her mind worked. And when she did act,
no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out
as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all.
The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the
native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was
with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that
leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been
wiped away.
“Dear Mrs. Wilcox,
‘ ‘ I have to write something discourteous. It would be
better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt
have given displeasure to your family, and, in my
sister’s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur.
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Margaret Takes Action
So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts
with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or
to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our
acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end.
“I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I
know that you will not, since you have been good enough
to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and
no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, un-
doubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her
knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her
with my discourtesy.
“ Believe me,
“Yours truly,
“M. J. SCHLEGEL.”
Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next
morning she received the following reply by hand :
“Dear Miss Schlegel,
“You should not have written me such a letter. I
called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad.
“Ruth Wilcox.”
Margaret’s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her
breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told*
her that the youth was leaving England, but other things
had seemed more important, and she had forgotten.
All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their
place arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs.
Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste
in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary,
but woe to those who employ it without due need. She
flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and
plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips
8o
Howards End
were compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and
in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble
vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up
the stairs till she reached the second floor.
She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown
straight into Mrs. Wilcox’s bedroom.
“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder.
I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say.”
Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and
did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in
bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her
knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her.
The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the
light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo
round her hands combined to create a strange atmosphere
of dissolution.
“I knew he was going to India in November, but I
forgot.”
“He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa. ”
“I knew — I know. I have been too absurd all through.
I am very much ashamed. ”
Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.
“I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you
will forgive me.”
“It does n’t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you
to have come round so promptly.”
* ‘ It does matter, ’ ’ cried Margaret. * 1 1 have been rude
to you ; and my sister is not even at home, so there was
not even that excuse.”
“Indeed?”
“She has just gone to Germany.”
“She gone as well,” murmured the other. “Yes,
certainly, it is quite safe — safe, absolutely, now.”
Margaret Takes Action 81
“You ’ve been worrying too!” exclaimed Margaret,
getting more and more excited, and taking a chair with-
out invitation. “How perfectly extraordinary! I can
see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn’t
meet him again.’*
“I did think it best.”
“Now why?”
“That ’s a most difficult question,” said Mrs. Wilcox,
smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance.
“ I think you put it best in your letter — it was an instinct,
which may be wrong.”
“It was n’t that your son still ”
“Oh no; he often — my Paul is very young, you see.”
“Then what was it?”
She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.”
“In other words, they belong to types that can fall
in love, but could n’t live together. That ’s dreadfully
probable. I ’m afraid that in nine cases out of ten
Nature pulls one way and human nature another.”
“These are indeed ‘other words,’” said Mrs. Wilcox.
“I had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely
alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sister.’ ’
“Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How
did you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt
drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things.
Did Paul tell you?”
“There is nothing to be gained by discussing that,”
said Mrs. Wilcox after a moment’s pause.
“ Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June ?
I wrote you a letter and you did n’t answer it. ”
“I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat.
I knew it was opposite your house. ”
“But it ’s all right now?”
6
82
Howards End
“I think so.”
“You only think? You are n’t sure? I do love these
little muddles tidied up?”
“Oh yes, I ’m sure,” said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with
uneasiness beneath the clothes. “I always sound
uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking.”
“That ’s all right, and I ’m sure, too.”
Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray.
They were interrupted, and when they resumed conver-
sation it was on more normal lines.
“I must say good-bye now — you will be getting up.”
“No — please stop a little longer — I am taking a day
in bed. Now and then I do. ”
“I thought of you as one of the early risers. ”
“At Howards End — yes; there is nothing to get up
for in London. ”
“Nothing to get up for?” cried the scandalised
Margaret. “When there are all the autumn exhibitions,
and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention
people. ”
“The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the
wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting
yesterday, I paid a round of calls.”
“A wedding?”
“Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.”
“Indeed!”
“We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that
Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a
cousin of my husband’s, and she most kindly offered it
to us. So before the day came we were able to make the
acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet
done.”
Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were.
Margaret Takes Action 83
“Fussell. The father is in the Indian army — retired;
the brother is in the army. The mother is dead. ”
So perhaps these were the “chinless sunburnt men”
whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the
window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes
of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on
Helen’s account, and it still clung to her. She asked for
more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was,
and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs.
Wilcox’s voice, though sweet and compelling, had little
range of expression. It suggested that pictures, con-
certs, and people are all of small and equal value. Only
once had it quickened — when speaking of Howards End.
“Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another
some time. They belong to the same club, and are both
devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe
not so well/ and they first met in a mixed foursome. We
all like her, and are very much pleased. They were
married on the nth, a few days before Paul sailed.
Charles was very anxious to have his brother as best
man, so he made a great point of having it on the nth.
The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas,
but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly’s
photograph — in that double frame.”
“Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting,
Mrs. Wilcox?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Then I will stay. I ’m enjoying this. ”
Dolly’s photograph was now examined. It was signed
“For dear Mims,” which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as
“the name she and Charles had settled that she should
call me.” Dolly looked silly, and had one of those
triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a
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Howards End
robust man. She was very pretty. From her Margaret
passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite.
She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two
together till God parted them. She found time to hope
that they would be happy.
'‘They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon.”
“Lucky people!”
“ I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy. ”
“Does n’t he care for travelling?”
“ He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so.
What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I
think that would have carried the day if the weather had
not been so abominable. His father gave him a car
for a wedding present, which for the present is being
stored at Howards End.”
“I suppose you have a garage there?”
“Yes. My husband built a little one only last month,
to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in
what used to be the paddock for the pony. ”
The last words had an indescribable ring about
them.
“Where’s the pony gone?” asked Margaret after a
pause.
“ The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago. ”
}k “The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a
very splendid tree.”
“It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your
sister tell you about the teeth?”
“No.”
“Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs’ teeth
stuck into the trunk, about four feet from the ground.
The country people put them in long ago, and they think
that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the
Margaret Takes Action 85
toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and
no one comes to the tree.”^\
' “I should. I love folklore and all festering super-
stitions.”
“ Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache,
if one believed in it?”
“Of course it did. It would cure anything — once.”
“Certainly I remember cases — you see I lived at
Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I
was born there.”
The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed
little more than aimless chatter. She was interested
when her hostess explained that Howards End was her
own property. She was bored when too minute an
account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties
of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of
Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire.
Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inatten-
tive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it,
smashed Dolly’s glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut
her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must
be going — there was all the housekeeping to do, and she
had to interview Tibby’s riding-master.
Then the curious note was struck again.
“Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you
for coming. You have cheered me up. ”
“I ’m so glad!”
“I — I wonder whether you ever think about
yourself ? ”
“ I think of nothing else, ” said Margaret, blushing, but
letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.
“I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg.”
“/’m sure!”
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Howards End
‘ ‘ I almost think ’ ’
“Yes?” asked Margaret, for there was a long pause —
a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire,
the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the
white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and
eternal shadows.
“ I almost think you forget you ’re a girl. ”
Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. “I’m
twenty-nine,” she remarked. “That’s not so wildly
girlish.”
Mrs. Wilcox smiled.
“What makes you say that? Do you mean that I
have been gauche and rude? ”
A shake of the head. “I only meant that I am fifty-
one, and that to me both of you — Read it all in some
book or other; I cannot put things clearly.”
“Oh, I ’ve got it — inexperience. I ’m no better than
Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her. ”
“Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the
word.”
“Inexperience,” repeated Margaret, in serious yet
buoyant tones. “Of course, I have everything to learn
— absolutely everything — just as much as Helen. Life’ s
very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I ’ve
got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight
ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember
the submerged — well, one can’t do all these things at
once, worse luck, because they ’re so contradictory.
It ’s then that proportion comes in — to live by propor-
tion. Don’t begin with proportion. Only prigs do
that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when
the better things have failed, and a deadlock — Gracious
me, I ’ve started preaching!”
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Margaret Takes Action
“Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly,”
said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper
shadows. “It is just what I should have liked to say
about them myself. ”
CHAPTER IX
A Luncheon-Party
Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret
much information about life. And Margaret, on the
other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, and has
pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not
feel. She had kept house for over ten years; she had
entertained, almost with distinction; she had brought
up a charming sister, and was bringing up a brother.
Surely, if experience is attainable, she had attained it.
Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs.
Wilcox’s honour was not a success. The new friend did
not blend with the “one or two delightful people” who
had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was one
of polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her
knowledge of culture slight, and she was not interested
in the New English Art Club, nor in the dividing-line
between Journalism and Literature, which was started
as a conversational hare. The delightful people darted
after it with cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and not
till the meal was half over did they realise that the princi-
pal guest had taken no part in the chase. There was no
common topic. Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been spent
in the service of husband and sons, had little to say to
88
89
A Luncheon-Party
strangers who had never shared it, and whose age was
half her own. Clever talk alarmed her, and withered
her delicate imaginings; it was the social counterpart
of a motor-car, all jerks, and she was a wisp of hay, a
flower. Twice she deplored the weather, twice criticised
the train service on the Great Northern Railway. They
vigorously assented, and rushed on, and when she inquired
whether there was any news of Helen, her hostess was
too much occupied in placing Rothenstein to answer.
The question was repeated: “I hope that your sister
is safe in Germany by now. ” Margaret checked herself
and said, “ Yes, thank you; I heard on Tuesday.” But
the demon of vociferation was in her, and the next
moment she was off again.
“Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin.
Did you ever know any one living at Stettin?”
“Never,” said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neigh-
bour, a young man low down in the Education Office,
began to discuss what people who lived at Stettin ought
to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity?
Margaret swept on.
“People at Stettin drop things into boats out of over-
hanging warehouses. At least, our cousins do, but
aren’t particularly rich. The town isn’t interesting,
except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the
Oder, which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs.
Wilcox, you would love the Oder! The river, or rather
rivers — there seem to be dozens of them — are intense
blue, and the plain they run through an intensest green. ”
“Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view,
Miss Schlegel.”
“So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says
no, it ’s like music. The course of the Oder is to be like
go
Howards End
music. It ’s obliged to remind her of a symphonic poem.
The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I remem-
ber rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed.
There is a slodgy theme in several keys at once, meaning
mud-banks, and another for the navigable canal, and the
exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major, pianissimo. ”
“What do the overhanging warehouses make of that? ”
asked the man, laughing.
“They make a great deal of it,” replied Margaret,
unexpectedl} rushing off on a new track. “I think it ’s
affectation to compare the Oder to music, and so do you,
but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty
seriously, which we don’t, and the average Englishman
does n’t, and despises all who do. Now don’t say
‘Germans have no taste,’ or I shall scream. They
have n’t. But — but — such a tremendous but ! — they
take poetry seriously. They do take poetry seriously.”
“Is anything gained by that?”
“Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for
beauty. He may miss it through stupidity, or misinter-
pret it, but he is always asking beauty to enter his life,
and I believe that in the end it will come. At Heidelberg
I met a fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with
sobs as he repeated some mawkish poetry. So easy
for me to laugh — I, who never repeat poetry, good or
bad, and cannot remember one fragment of verse to
thrill myself with. My blood boils — well, I ’m half
German, so put it down to patriotism — when I listen to
the tasteful contempt of the average islander for things
Teutonic, whether they ’re Bbcklin or my veterinary
surgeon. ‘Oh, Bocklin,’ they say; ‘he strains after
beauty, he peoples Nature with gods too consciously.’
Of course Bocklin strains, because he wants something —
9i
A Luncheon-Party
beauty and all the other intangible gifts that are floating
about the world. So his landscapes don’t come off, and
Leader’s do.”
“Iam not sure that I agree. Do you?” said he, turn-
ing to Mrs. Wilcox.
She replied: “I think Miss Schlegel puts everything
splendidly;” and a chill fell on the conversation.
“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that.
It ’s such a snub to be told you put things splendidly. ”
“ I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech inter-
ested me so much. Generally people do not seem quite
to like Germany. I have long wanted to hear what is
said on the other side.”
“The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good!
Give us your side. ”
“I have no side. But my husband” — her voice
softened, the chill increased — “has very little faith in the
Continent, and our children have all taken after him. ”
“On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent
is in bad form?”
Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to
grounds. She was not intellectual, nor even alert, and
it was odd that, all the same, she should give the idea
of greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends
over Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality
that transcended their own and dwarfed their activities.
There was no bitterness in Mrs. Wilcox; there was not
even criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or
uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and
daily life were out of focus ; one or the other must show
blurred. And at lunch she seemed more out of focus
than usual, and nearer the line that divides daily life
from a life that may be of greater importance
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Howards End
“You will admit, though, that the Continent — it
seems silly to speak of ‘the Continent,’ but really it is
all more like itself than any part of it is like England.
England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I was
going to say that the Continent, for good or for evil,
is interested in ideas. Its Literature and Art have what
one might call the kink of the unseen about them, and
this persists even through decadence and affectation.
There is more liberty of action in England, but for liberty
of thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. People will there
discuss with humility vital questions that we here think
ourselves too good to touch with tongs.”
“I do not want to go to Prussia,” said Mrs. Wilcox —
“not even to see that interesting view that you were
describing. And for discussing with humility I am too
old. We never discuss anything at Howards End. ”
“Then you ought to!” said Margaret. “Discussion
keeps a house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and
mortar alone.”
“It cannot stand without them,” said Mrs. Wilcox,
unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing,
for the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts
of the delightful people. ‘ * It cannot stand without them,
and I sometimes think — But I cannot expect your
generation to agree, for even my daughter disagrees
with me here.”
“ Never mind us or her. Do say!”
“I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and
discussion to men.”
There was a little silence.
“One admits that the arguments against the suffrage
are extraordinarily strong,” said a girl opposite, leaning
forward and crumbling her bread.
A Luncheon-Party 93
“Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am
only too thankful not to have a vote myself. ”
“We did n’t mean the vote, though, did we? ” supplied
Margaret. Are n’t we differing on something much
wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain
what they have been since the dawn of history; or
whether, since men have moved forward so far, they too
may move forward a little now. I say they may. I
would even admit a biological change.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.”
“I must be getting back to my overhanging ware-
house,” said the man. “They ’ve turned disgracefully
strict.”
Mrs. Wilcox also rose.
“Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested
plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind his
only having two noises? If you must really go, I ’ll
see you out. Won’t you even have coffee? ”
They left the dining-room closing the door behind
them, and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she
said: “What an interesting life you all lead in London!”
“No, we don’t,” said Margaret, with a sudden revul-
sion. “We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs
Wilcox — really — We have something quiet and stable
at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have.
Don’t pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it,
but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me
to you.”
“I am used to young people,” said Mrs. Wilcox, and
with each word she spoke the outlines of known things
grew dim. “I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for
we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more
sport and politics, but — I enjoyed my lunch very much,
94
Howards End
Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only
wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I ’m
not particularly well just to-day. For another, you
younger people move so quickly that it dazes me.
Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all
in the same boat, old and young. I never forget that. ”
They were silent for a moment. Then, with a new-
born emotion, they shook hands. The conversation
ceased suddenly when Margaret re-entered the dining-
room; her friends had been talking over her new friend,
and had dismissed her as uninteresting.
CHAPTER X
Christmas Shopping
Several days passed.
Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people —
there are many of them — who dangle intimacy and then
withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections,
and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them.
Then they withdraw. When physical passion is in-
volved, there is a definite name for such behaviour —
flirting — and if carried far enough it is punishable by
law. But no law — not public opinion even — punishes
those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache
that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and ex-
haustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these?
Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner’s
impatience, she wanted everything to be settled up
immediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that
are essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs.
Wilcox as a friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil,
as it were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest
of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed
favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried.
She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to
reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret
would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, or
95
96
Howards End
perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come
all was ready.
The crisis opened with a message : Would Miss Schlegel
come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wil-
cox felt behindhand with the presents. She had taken
some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time.
Margaret accepted, and at eleven o’clock one cheerless
morning they started out in a brougham.
“First of all,” began Margaret, “we must make a list
and tick off the people’s names. My aunt always does,
and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you
any ideas?”
“I thought we would go to Harrod’s or the Hay-
market Stores,” said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly.
“Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good
shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is
quite right — one ought to make a list. Take my note-
book, then, and write your own name at the top of the
page.”
“ Oh, hooray! ” said Margaret, writing it. “How very
kind of you to start with me ! ” But she did not want to
receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was
singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the
Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders;
the more compact families do. She did not want to be
thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents
since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed
like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles.
A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she
added: “I don’t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In
fact, I ’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because I ’ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because
Christmas Shopping 97
I have all that money can buy. I want more people,
but no more things.”
“I should like to give you something worth your ac-
quaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness
to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened
that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me
from brooding. I am too apt to brood. ”
“If that is so,” said Margaret, “if I have happened
to be of use to you, which I did n’t know, you cannot
pay me back with anything tangible.”
“I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I
shall think of something as we go about. ”
Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing
was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop.
The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like
cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of
grey. Mrs. Wilcox’s vitality was low that morning, and
it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little
girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector’s wife a copper
warming-tray. “We always give the servants money.”
“Yes, do you, yes, much easier,” replied Margaret but
felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen,
and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem
this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned.
Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against
temperance reform, invited men to “Join our Christmas
goose club” — one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to
subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded
the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had
come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christ-
mas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did
not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement
checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her
7
98
Howards End
with amazement annually. How many of these vacil-
lating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it
was a divine event that drew them together? She
realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She
was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not
believe that God had ever worked among us as a young
artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it,
and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible
signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane,
a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food
cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in
public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is
private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; per-
sonal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a
personality beyond our daily vision.
“No, I do like Christmas on the whole,” she an-
nounced. “In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace
and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year. ”
“Is it? I am only used to country Christmases.”
“We are usually in London, and play the game with
vigour — carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal,
clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree
and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen.
The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the
tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the
candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it
looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-
closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be
very small, and the presents don’t hang on it. No; the
presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of
crumpled brown paper. ”
“You spoke of your ‘ next house, ’ Miss Schlegel. Then
are you leaving Wickham Place?”
Christmas Shopping 99
“Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires.
We must.”
“Have you been there long?”
“All our lives.”
“You will be very sorry to leave it. ”
“I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My
father — ” She broke off, for they had reached the
stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and
Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting
cards.
“If possible, something distinctive,” she sighed. At
the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand ,
and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time.
“ My husband and our daughter are motoring.” “Bertha,
too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!” Margaret,
though not practical, could shine in such company as
this. While they talked, she went through a volume of
specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox’s
inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted — so original,
words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that,
and could ,'never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just
as the assistant was booking the order, she said: “Do
you know, I ’ll wait. On second thoughts, I ’ll wait.
There ’s plenty of time still, is n’t there, and I shall be
able to get Evie’s opinion. ”
They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when
they were in, she said, “ But couldn’t you get it renewed? ”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Margaret.
“The lease, I mean.”
“Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all
the time? How very kind of you ! ”
“Surely something could be done.”
“No; values have risen too enormously. They mean
xoo
Howards End
to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours. ”
“But how horrible!”
“Landlords are horrible.”
Then she said vehemently: “It is monstrous, Miss
Schlegel ; it is n’t right. I had no idea that this was
hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my
heart. To be parted from your house, your father’s
house — it ought n’t to be allowed. It is worse than
dying. I would rather die than — Oh, poor girls!
Can what they call civilisation be right, if people may n’t
die in the room where they were born? My dear, I am
so sorry ”
Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox
had been overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to
hysteria.
“Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It
would have killed me.”
“Howards End must be a very different house to ours.
We are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive
about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house.
We shall easily find another. ”
I “ So you think. ”
“Again my lack of experience, I suppose!” said Mar-
garet, easing away from the subject. “I can’t say any-
thing when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish
I could see myself as you see me — foreshortened into a
backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming — won-
derfully well read for my age, but incapable ”
Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. “Come down
with me to Howards End now,” she said, more vehem-
ently than ever. ‘ ‘ I want you to see it. You have never
seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do
put things so wonderfully.”
Christmas Shopping ioi
Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the
tired face of her companion. “Later on I should love
it,” she continued, “but it’s hardly the weather for
such an expedition, and we ought to start when we ’re
fresh. Is n’t the house shut up, too?”
She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be
annoyed.
“Might I come some other day?”
Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass.
“Back to Wickham Place, please!” was her order to the
coachman. Margaret had been snubbed.
“A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help. ”
“Not at all.”
“It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind
— the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your
choice.”
It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn
Margaret became annoyed.
“My husband and Evie will be back the day after
to-morrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping
to-day. I stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got through
nothing, and now he writes that they must cut their tour
short, the weather is so bad, and the police- traps have
been so bad — nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such
a careful chauffeur, and my husband feels it particularly
hard that they should be treated like road-hogs.”
“Why?”
“Well, naturally he — he is n’t a road-hog. ”
“He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He
must expect to suffer with the lower animals. ’ ’
Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. I ngrowing discomfort they
drove homewards. The city seemed Satanic, the nar-
rower streets oppressing like the galleries of a mine.
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Howards End
No harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high,
and the lighted windows of the shops were thronged
with customers. It was rather a darkening of the spirit
which fell back upon itself, to find a more grievous dark-
ness within. Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times,
but something throttled her. She felt petty and awk-
ward, and her meditations on Christmas grew more
cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but is there
a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? The
craving for excitement and for elaboration has ruined
that blessing. Goodwill? Had she seen any example
of it in the hordes of purchasers? Or in herself? She
had failed to respond to this invitation merely because
it was a little queer and imaginative — she, whose birth-
right it was to nourish imagination! Better to have
accepted, to have tired themselves a little by the jour-
ney, than coldly to reply, “ Might I come some other
day?” Her cynicism left her. There would be no
other day. This shadowy woman would never ask her
again.
They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in
after due civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, lonely
figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass doors
closed on it she had the sense of an imprisonment The
beautiful head disappeared first, still buried in the
muff; the long trailing skirt followed. A woman of un-
definable rarity was going up heavenward, like a speci-
men in a bottle. And into what a heaven — a vault as of
hell, sooty black, from which soot descended!
At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence
insisted on talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but
from babyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome
and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of
Christmas Shopping 103
the day-school that he sometimes patronised. The ac-
count was interesting, and she had often pressed him for
it before, but she could not attend now, for her mind was
focussed on the invisible. She discerned that Mrs.
Wilcox, though a loving wife and mother, had only one
passion in life — her house — and that the moment was
solemn when she invited a friend to share this passion
with her. To answer ‘‘another day” was to anwer as a
fool. “Another day” will do for brick and mortar, but
not for the Holy of Holies into which Howards End
had been transfigured. Her own curiosity was slight.
She had heard more than enough about it in the summer.
The nine windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had no
pleasant connections for her, and she would have pre-
ferred to spend the afternoon at a concert. But im-
agination triumphed. While her brother held forth she
determined to go, at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs.
Wilcox to go, too. When lunch was over she stepped
over to the flats.
Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night.
Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried
downstairs, and took a hansom to King’s Cross. She
was convinced that the escapade was important, though
it would have puzzled her to say why. There was ques-
tion of imprisonment and escape, and though she did not
know the time of the train, she strained her eyes for
St. Pancras’s clock.
Then the clock of King’s Cross swung into sight, a
second moon in that infernal sky, and her cab drew up
at the station. There was a train for Hilton in five
minutes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation
for a single. As she did so, a grave and happy voice
saluted her and thanked her.
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Howards End
“I will come if I still may,” said Margaret, laughing
nervously.
“You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the
morning that my house is most beautiful. You are
coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow pro-
perly except at sunrise. These fogs” — she pointed at
the station roof — “never spread far. I dare say they are
sitting in the sun in Hertfordshire, and you will never
repent joining them.”
“I shall never repent joining you.”
“It is the same.”
They began the walk up the long platform. Far at
its end stood the train, breasting the darkness without.
They never reached it. Before imagination could
triumph, there were cries of “Mother! mother!” and a
heavy-browed girl darted out of the cloak-room and
seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm.
“Evie!” she gasped — “Evie, my pet ”
The girl called, “Father! I say! look who ’s
here. ’ *
“Evie, dearest girl, why aren’t you in Yorkshire?”
“No — motor smash — changed plans — father’s
coming.”
“Why, Ruth!” cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them.
“What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you
doing here, Ruth?”
Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself.
“Oh, Henry dear! — here ’s a lovely surprise — but let
me introduce — but I think you know Miss Schlegel. ”
“Oh yes,” he replied, not greatly interested. “But
how ’s yourself, Ruth?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” she answered gaily
“So are we, and so was our car, which ran Ai as far as
Christmas Shopping 105
Ripon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a fool
of a driver ”
“Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another
day.”
“I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the police-
man himself admits ”
“Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course.”
“ — But as we 've insured against third party risks,
it won’t so much matter ”
“ — Cart and car being practically at right angles ”
The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret
was left alone. No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox
walked out of King’s kCross between her husband and
her daughter, listening to both of them.
CHAPTER XI
A Surprising Request
The funeral was over. The carriages had rolled away
through the soft mud, and only the poor remained.
They approached to the newly-dug shaft and looked
their last at the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the
spadefuls of clay. It was their moment. Most of
them were women from the dead woman’s district, to
whom black garments had been served out by Mr.
Wilcox’s orders. Pure curiosity had brought others.
They thrilled with the excitement of a death, and of a
rapid death, and stood in groups or moved between the
graves, like drops of ink. The son of one of them, a
wood-cutter, was perched high above their heads, pol-
larding one of the churchyard elms. From where he sat
he could see the village of Hilton, strung upon the North
Road, with its accreting suburbs; the sunset beyond,
scarlet and orange, winking at him beneath brows of
grey; the church; the plantations; and behind him an
unspoilt country of fields and farms. But he, too, was
rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. He tried
to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when
he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leave
his work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he
106
A Surprising Request 107
had almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the
rooks had cawed, and no wonder — it was as if rooks
knew too. His mother claimed the prophetic power
herself — she had seen a strange look about Mrs. Wilcox
for some time. London had done the mischief, said
others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother
had been kind, too — a plainer person, but very kind.
Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he was
a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again
and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of
a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis
or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though
remote from life, it enhanced life’s values, and they
witnessed it avidly.
The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent
of disapproval — they disliked Charles; it was not a
moment to speak of such things, but they did not like
Charles Wilcox — the grave-diggers finished their work
and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun
set over Hilton; the grey brows of the evening flushed
a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering
sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the
lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led
down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a
little longer, poised above the silence and swaying
rhythmically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw.
With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no
longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He
stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of
tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. “They
didn’t ought to have coloured flowers at buryings,”
he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped
again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back,
io8
Howards End
wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it
in his pocket.
After him came silence absolute. The cottage that
abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other
house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the
interment remained without an eye to witness it.
Clouds drifted over it from the west ; or the church may
have been a ship, high-pro wed, steering with all its com-
pany towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew
colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and
sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter,
returning after a night of joy, reflected: “They lilies,
they chrysants; it ’s a pity I did n’t take them all. ” ,
Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast.
Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs.
Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face,
breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came
over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while
he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he
would lay down the morsel untasted.
He remembered his wife’s even goodness during thirty
years. Not anything in detail — not courtship or early
raptures — but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to
him a woman’s noblest quality. So many women are
capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity.
Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter,
as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had
always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence!
The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of
God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and
wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass
in her field. Her idea of business — “Henry, why do
people who have enough money try to get more money? ”
A Surprising Request 109
Her idea of politics — “I am sure that if the mothers of
various nations could meet, there would be no more
wars. ” Her idea of religion — ah, this had been a cloud,
but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and
he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now mem-
bers of the Church of England. The rector’s sermons
had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire
for “a more inward light,” adding, “not so much for
myself as for baby” (Charles). Inward light must
have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later
years. They brought up their three children without
dispute. They had never disputed.
She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if
to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch
of mystery that was all unlike her. “Why did n’t you
tell me you knew of it?” he had moaned, and her faint
voice had answered: “I did n’t want to, Henry — I might
have been wrong — and every one hates illnesses.” He
had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she
had consulted during his absence from town. Was this
altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died.
It was a fault on her part, and — tears rushed into his
eyes — what a little fault! It was the only time she had
deceived him in those thirty years.
He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for
Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no
one’s eye. Ah yes — she had been a good woman — she
had been steady. He chose the word deliberately.
To him steadiness included all praise.
He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appear-
ance a steady man. His face was not as square as his
son’s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in out-
line, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were
no
Howards End
curtained by a moustache. But there was no external
hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and
good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were
the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead,
too, was like Charles’s. High and straight, brown and
polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it
had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from
the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall.
He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years.
“The post ’s come, father,” said Evie awkwardly.
“Thanks. Put it down.”
“Has the breakfast been all right?”
“Yes, thanks.”
The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint.
She did not know what to do.
“Charles says do you want the Times ?”
“No, I ’ll read it later.”
“Ring if you want anything, father, won’t you?”
“I’ve all I want.”
Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went
back to the dining-room.
“Father’s eaten nothing,” she announced, sitting
down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn.
Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran
quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said: “Look here,
father, you must eat, you know;” and having paused
for a reply that did not come, stole down again. “He ’s
going to read his letters first, I think, ” he said evasively;
“ I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards. ”
Then he took up the Times , and for some time there was
no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of
knife on plate.
Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions,
A Surprising Request 1 1 1
terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She
was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A
telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed
of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word
from her husband had plunged her into mourning.
She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished
that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died
before the marriage, for then less would have been
expected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous
to ask for the butter, she remained almost motionless,
thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was having
his breakfast upstairs.
At last Charles spoke. “They had no business
to be pollarding those elms yesterday,” he said to his
sister.
“No, indeed.”
“ I must make a note of that, ” he continued. “ I am
surprised that the rector allowed it.”
“Perhaps it may not be the rector’s affair.”
“Whose else could it be?”
“The lord of the manor.”
“Impossible.”
“Butter, Dolly?”
“Thank you, Evie dear. Charles ”
“Yes, dear?”
“I didn’t know one could pollard elms. I thought
one only pollarded willows.
“Oh no, one can pollard elms.”
“Then why oughtn’t the elms in the churchyard to
be pollarded?” Charles frowned a little, and turned
again to his sister.
“Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley.”
“Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.” *
1 12
Howards End
“It’s no good his saying he is not responsible for
those men. He is responsible. ”
“Yes, rather.”
Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus,
partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the
mark — a healthy desire in its way — partly because they
avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did.
It did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or
it may be as Helen supposed: they realised its import-
ance, but were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could
one glance behind. They were not callous, and they
left the breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their
mother never had come in to breakfast. It was in the
other rooms, and especially in the garden, that they felt
her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage, he
was reminded at every step of the woman who had
loved him and whom he could never replace. What
battles he had fought against her gentle conservatism!
How she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally
she had accepted them when made ! He and his father —
what trouble they had had to get this very garage!
With what difficulty had they persuaded her to yield them
the paddock for it — the paddock that she loved more
dearly than the garden itself! The vine — she had got
her way about the vine. It still encumbered the south
wall with its unproductive branches. And so with
Evie, as she stood talking to the cook. Though she
could take up her mother’s work inside the house, just
as the man could take it up without, she felt that some-
thing unique had fallen out of her life. Their grief,
though less poignant than their father’s, grew from
deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never.
Charles would go back to the office. There was little
A Surprising Request 113
to do at Howards End. The contents of his mother’s
will had long been known to them. There were no
legacies, no annuities, none of the posthumous bustle
with which some of the dead prolong their activities.
Trusting her husband, she had left him everything with-
out reserve. She was quite a poor woman — the house
had been all her dowry, and the house would come to
Charles in time. Her watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended
to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery
and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles
thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to
adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen
in it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame.
Cynicism — not the superficial cynicism that snarls and
sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and
tenderness — that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox’s will.
She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the
earth might freeze over her for ever.
No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He
could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go
up to London and work — he felt too miserable hanging
about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat
while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie*
He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which
was being painted and decorated for him in one of the
Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself
soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch
in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come
down for the funeral, would go up by train.
He found his father’s chauffeur in the garage,- said
11 Morning” without looking at the man’s face, and
bending over the car, continued: “Hullo! my new car’s
been driven!”
Howards End
1 14
“Has it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Charles, getting rather red; “and who-
ever’s driven it hasn’t cleaned it properly, for there ’s
mud on the axle. Take it off. ”
The man went for the cloths without a word. He was
a chauffeur as ugly as sin — not that this did him disser-
vice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather
rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with
whom they had started.
“Charles — ” His bride was tripping after him over
the hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and
elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof.
“One minute, I ’m busy. Well, Crane, who ’s been
driving it, do you suppose?”
“ Don’t know, I ’m sure, sir. No one ’s driven it since
I ’ve been back, but, of course, there ’s the fortnight
I ’ve been away with the other car in Yorkshire. ”
The mud came off easily.
“Charles, your father’s down. Something’s hap-
pened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh,
Charles!”
“Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the
garage while you were away, Crane?”
“The gardener, sir.”
“Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a
motor?”
“No, sir; no one ’s had the motor out, sir.”
• “Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?”
“I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in
Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir.”
Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a
fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would
have reported him to his father. But it was not a
A Surprising Request 115
morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be
round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the
while been pouring out some incoherent story about a
letter and a Miss Schlegel.
“Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel?
What does she want?”
When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what
they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action.
And the question in this case was correct, for his wife
replied, “She wants Howards End.”
“Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to
put on the Stepney wheel.”
“No, sir.”
f “Now, mind you don’t forget, for I — Come, little
woman.” When they were out of the chauffeur’s sight
he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against
him. All his affection and half his attention — it was
what he granted her throughout their happy married
life.
“But you have n’t listened, Charles ”
“What ’s wrong?”
“I keep on telling you — Howards End. Miss Schle-
gel ’s got it.”
“Got what?” said Charles, unclasping her. “What
the dickens are you talking about?”
“Now, Charles, you promised not so say those
naughty ”
“Look here, I’m in no mood for foolery. It’s no
morning for it either.”
“I tell you — I keep on telling you — Miss Schlegel —
she ’s got it — your mother’s left it to her— and you ’ve
all got to move out!”
“ Howards End ?”
Ii6
Howards End
11 Howards End!” she screamed, mimicking him, and
as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery.
“ Dolly, go back at once ! My father ’s much annoyed
with you. Charles” — she hit herself wildly — “come in
at once to father. He ’s had a letter that ’s too awful. ”
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped
heavily across the gravel path. There the house was —
the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed,
“Schlegels again!” and as if to complete chaos, Dolly
said, “Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has
written instead of her.”
“Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer
inert. “Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?”
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox ”
“I told you not to go out to the garage. I ’ve heard
you all shouting in the garden. I won’t have it. Come
in.”
He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand.
“Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can’t
discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants.
Here, Charles, here ; read these. See what you make. ”
Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed
the procession. The first was a covering note from the
matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral
should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed —
it was from his mother herself. She had written: “To
my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret)
to have Howards End.”
“I suppose we ’re going to have a talk about this?” he
remarked, ominously calm.
1 ‘ Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly ’ ’
“Well, let ’s sit down.”
“Come, Evie, don’t waste time, sit-down.”
A Surprising Request 117
In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The
events of yesterday — indeed, of this morning — suddenly
receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely
to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard.
They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them
further, read the enclosure out loud: “A note in my
mother’s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my
father, sealed. Inside: ‘I should like Miss Schlegel
(Margaret) to have Howards End.’ No date, no signa-
ture. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing
home. Now, the question is ”
Dolly interrupted him. “But I say that note isn’t
legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles,
surely.”
Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps
appeared in front of either ear — a symptom that she
had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she
might see the note. Charles looked at his father for
permission, who said abstractedly, “Give it her.” She
seized it, and at once exclaimed: “Why, it’s only in
pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts.”
“We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly,” said
Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. “We
are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in
tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course,
my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it
will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not
understand. ”
Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then
repeated: “The question is — ” He had cleared a
space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives,
so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. “The
question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fort-
1 18 Howards End
night we were all away, whether she unduly — ” He
stopped.
“I don’t think that,” said his father, whose nature
was nobler than his son’s.
“ Don’t think what? ”
“That she would have — that it is a case of undue
influence. No, to my mind the question is the — the
invalid’s condition at the time she wrote.”
“My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I
don’t admit it is my mother’s writing.”
“Why, you just said it was!” cried Dolly.
“Never mind if I did,” he blazed out; “and hold your
tongue.”
The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her
handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one
noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy.
The two men were gradually assuming the manner of
the committee-room. They were both at their best when
serving on committees. They did not make the mistake
of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of
them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item
before them now, and on it they turned their well-
trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted
the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next
point. It is the best — perhaps the only — way of dodging
emotion. They were the average human article, and
had they considered the note as a whole it would have
driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by
item, the emotional content was minimised, and all
went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals
blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance
that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the
sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems,
A Surprising Request 119
extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across
the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning.
Evie’s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a
dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that sur-
rounded him. He was discredited, but the black-
birds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness,
for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered.
Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident
note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the . discussion
moved towards its close.
To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment
when the commentator should step forward. Ought
the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret?
I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not
legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell
of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead
woman’s intentions in the past, contrary to her very
nature, so far as that nature was understood by them.
To them Howards End was a house : they could not know
that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a
spiritual heir. And — pushing one step farther in these
mists — may they not have decided even better than they
supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the
spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring?
A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it —
can passion for such things be transmitted where there
js no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be
blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not
even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting
that after due debate they should tear the note up and
throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical
moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives
to look deeper may acquit them — almost. For one
120
Howards End
hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal.
The woman who had died did say to them, “Do this,”
and they answered, “We will not.”
The incident made a most painful impression on them.
Grief mounted into the brain and worked there dis-
quietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: “She was
a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence she neg-
lected her health and died.” To-day they thought:
“She was not as true, as dear, as we supposed.” The
desire for a more inward light had found expression at
last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that
they could say was “Treachery.” Mrs. Wilcox had
been treacherous to the family, to the laws of property,
to her own written word. How did she expect Howards
End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her hus-
band, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to
her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a
life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there
to be no compensation for the garage and other improve-
ments that they had made under the assumption that all
would be theirs some day? Treacherous! treacherous
and absurd! When we think the dead both treacherous
and absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling our-
selves to their departure. That note, scribbled in pencil,
sent through the matron, was unbusinesslike as well as
cruel, and decreased at once the value of the woman who
had written it.
“Ah, well!” said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table.
“I should n't have thought it possible.”
“Mother couldn't have meant it,” said Evie, still
frowning.
“No, my girl, of course not.”
“Mother believed so in ancestors too — it isn’t like
A Surprising Request 121
her to leave anything to an outsider, who ’d never
appreciate. ”
“The whole thing is unlike her,” he announced. “If
Miss Schlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a house,
I could understand it a little. But she has a house of her
own. Why should she want another? She wouldn’t
have any use for Howards End. ”
“That time may prove,” murmured Charles.
“How?” asked his sister.
“Presumably she knows — mother will have told her.
She got twice or three times into the nursing home.
Presumably she is awaiting developments. ”
“What a horrid woman!” And Dolly, who had
recovered, cried, “Why, she may be coming down to
turn us out now!”
Charles put her right. “I wish she would,” he said
ominously. “I could then deal with her. ”
“So could I, ” echoed his father, who was feeling rather
in the cold. Charles had been kind in undertaking the
funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat his
breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little dicta-
torial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily.
“ I could deal with her, if she comes, but she won’t come.
You ’re all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel.”
“That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though.”
“I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I
said at the time, and besides, it is quite apart from this
business. Margaret Schlegel has been officious and
tiresome during this terrible week, and we have all
suffered under her, but upon my soul she ’s honest.
She ’s not in collusion with the matron. I ’m absolutely
certain of it. Nor was she with the doctor, I ’m equally
certain of that. She did not hide anything from us, for
122
Howards End
up to that very afternoon she was as ignorant as we are.
She, like ourselves, was a dupe — ” He stopped for a
moment. “You see, Charles, in her terrible pain your
mother put us all in false positions. Paul would not
have left England, you would not have gone to Italy, nor
Evie and I into Yorkshire, if only we had known. Well,
Miss Schlegel’s position has been equally false. Take
all in all, she has not come out of it badly. ”
Evie said: “But those chrysanthemums ”
“Or coming down to the funeral at all — ” echoed
Dolly.
“Why should n’t she come down? She had the right
to, and she stood far back among the Hilton women.
The flowers — certainly we should not have sent such
flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to her,
Evie, and for all you know they may be the custom in
Germany.”
“Oh, I forget she isn’t really English,” cried Evie.
“That would explain a lot.”
“She ’s a cosmopolitan,” said Charles, looking at his
watch. “I admit I ’m rather down on cosmopolitans.
My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a Ger-
man cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that ’s about all,
is n’t it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A
bicycle will do. And, by the way, I wish you ’d speak
to Crane some time. I ’m certain he ’s had my new
car out.”
t “Has he done it any harm?”
“No.”
“In that case I shall let it pass. It ’s not worth while
having a row. ”
Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they
always parted with an increased regard for one another,
123
A Surprising Request
and each desired no doughtier comrade when it was
necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions So the
sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first
stopped one another’s ears with wool.
CHAPTER XII
The Situation Changes
Charles need not have been anxious. Miss Schlegel
had never heard of his mother’s strange request. She
was to hear of it in after years, when she had built up
her life differently, and it was to fit into position as the
headstone of the corner. Her mind was bent on other
questions now, and by her also it would have been
rejected as the fantasy of an invalid.
She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second
time. Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had
flowed into her life and ebbed out of it for ever. The
ripple had left no traces behind ; the wave had strewn
at her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious
seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of the sea that
tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing of
this last tremendous tide. Her friend had vanished in
agony, but not, she believed, in degradation. Her with-
drawal had hinted at other things besides disease and pain.
Some leave our life with tears, others with an insane
frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, which
only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept proportion.
She had told a little of her grim secret to her friends,
but not too much; she had shut up her heart — almost,
124
125
The Situation Changes
but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we
ought to die — neither as victim nor as fanatic, but as the
seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the deep that
he is entering, and the shore that he must leave.
The last word — whatever it would be — had certainly
not been said in Hilton churchyard. She had not died
there. /A funeral is not death, any more than baptism
is birtn or marriage union. All three are the clumsy
devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which
Society would register the quick motions of man. In
Margaret’s eyes Mrs. Wilcox had escaped registration.
She had gone out of life vividly, her own way, and no
dust was so truly dust as the contents of that heavy
coffin, lowered with ceremonial until it rested on the
dust of the earth, no flowers so utterly wasted as the
chrysanthemums that the frost must have withered
before morning. Margaret had once said she “loved
superstition. ” It was not true. Few women had tried
more earnestly to pierce the accretions in which body
and soul are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wilcox
had helped her in her work. She saw a little more
clearly than hitherto what a human being is, and to
what he may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed.
Perhaps the last word would be hope — hope even on
this side of the grave.
Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the sur-
vivors. In spite of her Christmas duties, in spite of
her brother, the Wilcoxes continued to play a consider-
able part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of
them in the final week. They were not “her sort,”
they were often suspicious and stupid, and deficient
where she excelled; but collision with them stimulated
her, and she felt an interest that verged into liking, even
126
Howards End
for Charles. She desired to protect them, and often
felt that they could protect her, excelling where she
was deficient. Once past the rocks of emotion, they
knew so well what to do, whom to send for; their hands
were on all the ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness
and she valued grit enormously. They led a life that
she could not attain to — the outer life of “telegrams and
anger,” which had detonated when Helen and Paul
had touched in June, and had detonated again the other
week. To Margaret this life was to remain a real force.
She could not despise it, as Helen and Tibby affected
to do. It fostered such virtues as neatness, decision,
and obedience, virtues of the second rank, no doubt,
but they have formed our civilisation. They form
character, too; Margaret could not doubt it; they keep
the soul from becoming sloppy. How dare Schlegels
despise Wilcoxes, when it takes all sorts to make a
world?
“Don’t brood too much,” she wrote to Helen, “on
the superiority of the unseen to the seen. It ’s true,
but to brood on it is mediaeval. Our business is not
to contrast the two, but to reconcile them.”
Helen replied that she had no intention of brood-
ing on such a dull subject. What did her sister take
her for? The weather was magnificent. She and the
Mosebachs had gone tobogganing on the only hill that
Pomerania boasted. It was fun, but over-crowded, for the
rest of Pomerania had gone there too. Helen loved the
country, and her letter glowed with physical exercise and
poetry. She spoke of the scenery, quiet, yet august;
of the snow-clad fields, with their scampering herds of
deer; of the river and its quaint entrance into the Baltic
Sea; of the Oderberge, only three hundred feet high,
The Situation Changes
1 27
from which one slid all too quickly back into the Pom-
eranian plains, and yet these Oderberge were real
mountains, with pine-forests, streams, and views com-
plete. “It isn’t size that counts so much as the way
things are arranged.” In another paragraph she re-
ferred to Mrs. Wilcox sympathetically, but the news had
not bitten into her. She had not realised the accessories
of death, which are in a sense more memorable than
death itself. The atmosphere of precautions and re-
criminations, and in the midst a human body growing
more vivid because it was in pain; the end of that body
in Hilton churchyard; the survival of something that
suggested hope, vivid in its turn against life’s workaday
cheerfulness; — all these were lost to Helen, who only
felt that a pleasant lady could now be pleasant no longer.
She returned to Wickham Place full of her own affairs —
she had had another proposal — and Margaret, after a
moment’s hesitation, was content that this should be
so.
The proposal had not been a serious matter. It was
the work of Fraulein Mosebach, who had conceived the
large and patriotic notion of winning back her cousins
to the Fatherland by matrimony. England had played
Paul Wilcox, and lost; Germany played Herr Forst-
meister some one — Helen could not remember his name.
Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and, standing on the
summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his house
to Helen, or rather, had pointed out the wedge of pines
in which it lay. She had exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely!
That ’s the place for me!” and in the evening Frieda
appeared in her bedroom. “I have a message, dear
Helen,” etc., and so she had, but had been very nice
when Helen laughed; quite understood — a forest too
128
Howards End
solitary and damp — quite agreed, but Herr Forstmeister
believed he had assurance to the contrary. Germany
had lost, but with good-humour; holding the manhood
of the world, she felt bound to win. “And there will
even be some one for Tibby, ” concluded Helen. “ There
now, Tibby, think of that; Frieda is saving up a little
girl for you, in pig-tails and white worsted stockings,
but the feet of the stockings are pink as if the little
girl had trodden in strawberries. I ’ve talked too
much. My head aches. Now you talk. ”
Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own
affairs, for he had just been up to try for a scholarship
at Oxford. The men were down, and the candidates
had been housed in various colleges, and had dined in
hall. Tibby was sensitive to beauty, the experience
was new, and he gave a description of his visit that was
almost glowing. The august and mellow University,
soaked with the richness of the western counties that
it has served for a thousand years, appealed at once
to the boy’s taste ; it was the kind of thing he could under-
stand, and he understood it all the better because it
was empty. Oxford is — Oxford; not a mere receptacle
for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its in-
mates to love it rather than to love one another; such
at all events was to be its effect on Tibby. His sisters
sent him there that he might make friends, for they
knew that his education had been cranky, and had
severed him from other boys and men. He made no
friends. His Oxford remained Oxford empty, and he
took into life with him, not the memory of a radiance,
but the memory of a colour scheme.
It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister
talking. They did not get on overwell as a rule. For
129
The Situation Changes
a few moments she listened to them, feeling elderly
and benign. Then something occurred to her, and
she interrupted:
“Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that
sad business?”
“Yes.”
“ I have had a correspondence with her son. He was
winding up the estate, and wrote to ask me whether
his mother had wanted me to have anything. I thought
it good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said
that she had once spoken of giving me a Christmas
present, but we both forgot about it afterwards.”
“ I hope Charles took the hint. ”
“Yes — that is to say, her husband wrote later on,
and thanked me for being a little kind to her, and actually
gave me her silver vinaigrette. Don’t you think that
is extraordinarily generous? It has made me like him
very much. He hopes that this will not be the end of
our acquaintance, but that you and I will go and stop
with Evie some time in the future. I like Mr. Wilcox.
He is taking up his work — rubber — it is a big business.
I gather he is launching out rather. Charles is in it,
too. Charles is married — a pretty little creature, but
she does n’t seem wise. They took on the flat, but
now they have gone off to a house of their own.”
Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account of
Stettin. How quickly a situation changes! In June
she had been in a crisis; even in November she could
blush and be unnatural; now it was January, and the
whole affair lay forgotten. Looking back on the past
six months, Margaret realised the chaotic nature of
our daily life, and its difference from the orderly sequence
that has been fabricated by historians. Actual life
9
130
Howards End
is full of false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere.
With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that
never comes. The most successful career must show
a waste of strength that might have removed mountains,
and the most unsuccessful is not that of the man who
is taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and
is never taken. On a tragedy of that kind our national
morality is duly silent. It assumes that preparation
against danger is in itself a good, and that men, like
nations, are the better for staggering through life fully
armed. The tragedy of preparedness has scarcely been
handled, save by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous,
but not in the way morality would have us believe.
It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not
a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance,
and its essence is romantic beauty.
Margaret hoped that for the future she would be less
cautious, not more cautious, than she had been in the
past.
CHAPTER XIII
A Mysterious Caller
Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household
continued to lead its life of cultured, but not ignoble,
ease, still swimming gracefully on the grey tides of
London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money
had been spent and renewed, reputations won and lost,
and the city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose and
fell in a continual flux, while her shallows washed more
widely against the hills of Surrey and over the fields
of Hertfordshire. This famous building had arisen,
that was doomed. To-day Whitehall had been trans-
formed ; it would be the turn of Regent Street to-morrow.
And month by month the roads smelt more strongly
of petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human
beings heard each other speak with greater difficulty,
breathed less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Nature
withdrew; the leaves were falling by midsummer; the
sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity.
To speak against London is no longer fashionable.
The Earth as an artistic cult has had its day, and the
literature of the near future will probably ignore the
country and seek inspiration from the town. One can
understand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental
131
132
Howards End
forces, the public has heard a little too much — they
seem Victorian, while London is Georgian — and those
who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long
ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly
London fascinates. One visualises it as a tract of
quivering grey, intelligent without purpose, and excitable
without love; as a spirit that has altered before it can
be chronicled ; as a heart that certainly beats, but with
no pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything;
Nature, with all her cruelty, comes nearer to us than
do these crowds of men. A friend explains himself;
the earth is explicable — from her we came, and we
must return to her. But who can explain Westminster
Bridge Road or Liverpool Street in the morning — the
city inhaling — or the same thoroughfares in the evening
— the city exhaling her exhausted air ? We reach in
desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the
voids of the universe are ransacked to justify the monster,
and stamped with a human face. London is religion’s
opportunity — not the decorous religion of theologians,
but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous
flow would be tolerable if a man of our own sort — not
any one pompous or tearful — were caring for us up in
the sky.
The Londoner seldom understands his city until it
sweeps him, too, away from his moorings, and Margaret’s
eyes were not opened until the lease of Wickham Place
expired. She had always known that it must expire,
but the knowledge only became vivid about nine months
before the event. Then the house was suddenly ringed
with pathos. It had seen so much happiness. Why had
it to be swept away? In the streets of the city she
noted for the first time the architecture of hurry, and
A Mysterious Caller 133
heard the language of hurry on the mouths of its in-
habitants— clipped words, formless sentences, potted
expressions of approval or disgust. Month by month
things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The
population still rose, but what was the quality of the
men born? The particular millionaire who owned the
freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to erect Baby-
lonian flats upon it — what right had he to stir so large
a portion of the quivering jelly? He was not a fool —
she had heard him expose Socialism — but true insight
began just where his intelligence ended, and one gathered
that this was the case with most millionaires. What
right had such men — But Margaret checked herself.
That way lies madness. Thank goodness, she, too, had
some money, and could purchase a new home.
Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down
for the Easter vacation, and Margaret took the oppor-
tunity of having a serious talk with him. Did he at all
know where he wanted to live? Tibby did n’t know
that he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted
to do? He was equally uncertain, but when pressed
remarked that he should prefer to be quite free of any
profession. Margaret was not shocked, but went on
sewing for a few minutes before she replied:
“I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me
as particularly happy. ”
“Ye-es,” said Tibby, and then held his mouth open
in a curious quiver, as if he, too, had thought of Mr.
Vyse, had seen round, through, over, and beyond Mr.
Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally
dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the
subject under discussion. That bleat of Tibby ’s infuri-
ated Helen. But Helen was now down in the dining-
134
Howards End
room preparing a speech about political economy. At
times her voice could be heard declaiming through
the floor.
“But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don’t
you think? Then there ’s Guy. That was a pitiful
business. Besides” — shifting to the general — “every
one is the better for some regular work.”
Groans.
“I shall stick to it,” she continued, smiling. “I am
not saying it to educate you; it is what I really think.
I believe that in the last century men have developed
the desire for work, and they must not starve it. It ’s
a new desire. It goes with a great deal that ’s bad, but
in itself it ’s good, and I hope that for women, too, ‘ not
to work’ will soon become as shocking as ‘not to be
married’ was a hundred years ago. ”
“I have no experience of this profound desire to which
you allude,” enunciated Tibby.
“Then we ’ll leave the subject till you do. I ’m not
going to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do
think over the lives of the men you like most, and see
how they ’ve arranged them.”
“I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most,” said Tibby faintly,
and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a
horizontal line from knees to throat.
“And don’t think I’m not serious because I don’t
use the traditional arguments — making money, a sphere
awaiting you, and so on — all of which are, for various
reasons, cant.” She sewed on. “I ’m only your sister.
I have n’t any authority over you, and I don’t want to
have any. Just to put before you what I think the
truth. You see” — she shook off the pince-nez to
which she had recently taken — “in a few years we shall
A Mysterious Caller 135
be the same age practically, and I shall want you to
help me. Men are so much nicer than women.”
“Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not
marry?”
“I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the
chance. ”
“ Has no body arst you?”
“Only ninnies.”
“Do people ask Helen?”
“Plentifully.”
“ Tell me about them. ”
“No.”
“Tell me about your ninnies, then.”
“They were men who had nothing better to do,”
said his sister, feeling that she was entitled to score this
point. “So take warning; you must work, or else you
must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work,
work if you ’d save your soul and your body. It is
honestly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes,
look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their defects of temper
and understanding, such men give me more pleasure
than many who are better equipped, and I think it is
because they have worked regularly and honestly.”
“Spare me the Wilcoxes, ” he moaned.
“I shall not. They are the right sort.”
“Oh, goodness me, Meg!” he protested, suddenly
sitting up, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects,
had a genuine personality.
“Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can
imagine.”
“No, no — oh, no!”
“I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once
classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill from Nigeria.
136 Howards End
He ’s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me — out
to his duty.”
“Duty” always elicited a groan.
“He doesn’t want the money, it is work he wants,
though it is beastly work — dull country, dishonest
natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A
nation that can produce men of that sort may well be
proud. No wonder England has become an Empire.”
“Empire!”
“I can’t bother over results,” said Margaret, a little
sadly. “They are too difficult for me. I can only
look at the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I
can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London
bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are
labouring to make London ”
“What it is,” he sneered.
“What it is, worse luck. I want activity without
civilisation. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is
what we shall find in heaven. ”
“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilisation without
activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the
other place.”
“You need n’t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins,
if you want that. You can find it at Oxford.”
“Stupid ”
“If I’m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting.
I ’ll even live in Oxford if you like — North Oxford. I ’ll
live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and
Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and
Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There
on no account.”
“London, then.”
“I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from
137
A Mysterious Caller
London. However, there ’s no reason we should n’t
have a house in the country and also a flat in town,
provided we all stick together and contribute. Though
of course — Oh, how one does maunder on, and to
think, to think of the people who are really poor. How
do they live? Not to move about the world would kill
»
me.
As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen
burst in in a state of extreme excitement.
“Oh, my dears, what do you think? You ’ll never
guess. A woman’s been here asking me for her husband.
Her what?11 (Helen was fond of supplying her own
surprise.) “Yes, for her husband, and it really is so.”
“ Not anything to do with Bracknell?” cried Margaret,
who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name
to clean the knives and boots.
“I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was
Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It ’s no one we know. I
said, ‘Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round,
hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake
out the antimacassars. Husband? husband?’ Oh, and
she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a
chandelier. ”
“Now, Helen, what did really happen?”
“What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech.
Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female
straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we
began — very civilly. ‘I want my husband, what I
have reason to believe is here.’ No — how unjust one is.
She said ‘whom,’ not ‘what.’ She got it perfectly.
So I said, ‘Name, please?’ and she said, ‘Lan, Miss,’
and there we were. ”
“Lan?”
138 Howards End
“Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels.
Lanoline. ”
“But what an extraordinary ”
“I said, ‘My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave
misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty
is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never,
never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine. ”
“I hope you were pleased,” said Tibby.
“Of course,” Helen squeaked. “A perfectly de-
lightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline ’s a dear — she
asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She
mislaid him Saturday afternoon — and for a long time
suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this
morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast did n’t
seem the same — no, no more did lunch, and so she
strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most
likely place for the missing article. ”
“But how on earth ”
“Don’t begin how on earthing. ‘I know what I
know,’ she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with ex-
treme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know.
Some knew what others knew, and others did n’t, and
if they did n’t, then others again had better be careful.
Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a
silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We
chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I won-
dered where hers was too, and advised her to go to the
police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lano-
line’s a notty, notty man, and has n’t no business to
go on the lardy-da. But I think she suspected me up
to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this.
Now, Meg, remember — bags I.”
“Bag it by all means,” murmured Margaret, putting
139
A Mysterious Caller
down her work. “I’m not sure that this is so funny,
Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking some-
where, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t think so — she doesn’t really mind. The
admirable creature is n’t capable of tragedy.”
“Her husband may be, though,” said Margaret,
moving to the window.
“Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could
have married Mrs. Lanoline.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Her figure may have been good once. ”
The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate
curtain between Margaret and the welter of London.
Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham
Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that
her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and
squalor, into nearer contact with such episodes as these.
“Tibby and I have again been wondering where we ’ll
live next September,” she said at last.
“Tibby had better first wonder what he ’ll do,” re-
torted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with
acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went
on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one,
too, for they were going out to a discussion society on
the morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs.
Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell,
a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred
had both decayed.
CHAPTER XIV
The Mystery Explained
The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained.
Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner,
a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment
of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus
much from his card. He had come " about the lady
yesterday.” Thus much from Annie, who had shown
him into the dining-room.
"Cheers, children!” cried Helen. "It ’s Mrs.
Lanoline.”
Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs,
to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young
man, colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful
eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common
in London, and that haunt some streets of the city like
accusing presences. One guessed him as the third genera-
tion, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom civili-
sation had sucked into the town; as one of the thousands
who have lost the life of the body and failed to reach
the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in
him, more than a hint of primitive good looks, and
Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight,
and the chest that might have broadened, wondered
whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for
140
The Mystery Explained 141
a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked
in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had
doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide and
so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural
and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who
are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type
very well — the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty,
the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew
the very tones in which he would address her. She was
only unprepared for an example of her own visiting-card.
“You wouldn’t remember giving me this, Miss
Schlegel?” said he, uneasily familiar.
“No; I can’t say I do.”
“Well, that was how it happened, you see.”
“Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute
I don’t remember.”
“It was a concert at the Queen’s Hall. I think you
will recollect,” he added pretentiously, “when I tell
you that it included a performance of the Fifth
Symphony of Beethoven.”
“We hear the Fifth practically every time it ’s done,
so I ’m not sure — do you remember, Helen?”
“Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the
balustrade?”
He thought not.
“Then I don’t remember. That ’s the only Beethoven
I ever remember specially.”
“And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella,
inadvertently of course.”
“Likely enough,” Helen laughed, “for I steal um-
brellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you
get it back?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel.” <
142 Howards End
“ The mistake arose out of my card, did it? ” interposed
Margaret.
“Yes, the mistake arose — it was a mistake.”
“The lady who called here yesterday thought that
you were calling too, and that she could find you?”
she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he
had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give
one.
“That ’s so, calling too — a mistake.”
“Then why — ?” began Helen, but Margaret laid a
hand on her arm.
“I said to my wife,” he continued more rapidly —
“I said to Mrs. Bast, ‘I have to pay a call on some
friends,’ and Mrs. Bast said to me, ‘Do go.’ While I
was gone, however, she wanted me on important business,
and thought I had come here, owing to the card, and
so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and
hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inad-
vertently caused you.”
“No inconvenience,” said Helen; “but I still don’t
understand. ”
An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He ex-
plained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen
did n’t see why he should get off. She had the cruelty
of youth. Neglecting her sister’s pressure, she said,
“I still don’t understand. When did you say you paid
this call?”
“ Call? What call? ” said he, staring as if her question
had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in
mid-stream.
“This afternoon call.”
“In the afternoon, of course!” he replied, and looked
at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibbie was
The Mystery Explained 143
unsympathetic, and said, “Saturday afternoon or Sunday
afternoon?”
“S— Saturday.”
“Really!” said Helen; “and you were still calling
on Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit.”
“I don’t call that fair,” said Mr. Bast, going scarlet
and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. “I know
what you mean, and it is n’t so. ”
“Oh, don’t let us mind,” said Margaret, distressed
again by odours from the abyss.
“It was something else,” he asserted, his elaborate
manner breaking down. “ I was somewhere else to what
you think, so there!”
“It was good of you to come and explain,” she said.
“The rest is naturally no concern of ours.”
“Yes, but I want — I wanted — have you ever read
The Ordeal of Richard Fever el? ”
Margaret nodded.
“It ’s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the
earth, don’t you see, like Richard does in the end.
Or have you ever read Stevenson’s Prince Otto?”
Helen and Tibby groaned gently.
“That’s another beautiful book. You get back to
the earth in that. I wanted — ” He mouthed affect-
edly. Then through the mists of his culture came a
hard fact, hard as a pebble. “ I walked all the Satur-
day night, ” said Leonard. “ I walked. ” A thrill of ap-
proval ran through the sisters. But culture closed in
again. He asked whether they had ever read E. V.
Lucas’s Open Road.”
Said Helen, “No doubt it ’s another beautiful book,
but I ’d rather hear about your road.”
“Oh, I walked.”
144
Howards End
“How far?”
“I don’t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to
see my watch.”
“Were you walking alone, may I ask?”
“Yes,” he said, straightening himself; “but we’d
been talking it over at the office. There ’s been a lot
of talk at the office lately about these things. The
fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I
looked it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors
everything gets so mixed ”
“Don’t talk to me about the Pole Star,” interrupted
Helen, who was becoming interested. “I know its
little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round
after it.”
“Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps,
then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy.”
Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped
from the room. He knew that this fellow would never
attain to poetry, and did not want to hear him trying.
Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother in-
fluenced them more than they knew; in his absence
they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily.
“Where did you start from?” cried Margaret. “Do
tell us more.”
“I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came
out of the office I said to myself, ‘I must have a walk
once in a way. If I don’t take this walk now, I shall
never take it.’ I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon,
and then ”
“But not good country there, is it?”
“ It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night,
and being out was the great thing. I did get into
woods, too, presently.”
145
The Mystery Explained
“Yes, go on,” said Helen.
“You ’ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when
it ’s dark.”
“Did you actually go off the roads?”
“Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but
the worst of it is that it ’s more difficult to find one's
way.”
“Mr. Bast, you’re a born adventurer,” laughed
Margaret. “No professional athlete would have at-
tempted what you ’ve done. It ’s a wonder your walk
did n’t end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife
say?”
“Professional athletes never move without lanterns
and compasses,” said Helen. “Besides, they can’t
walk. It tires them. Go on.”
“I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how
in Virginibus ”
“Yes, but the wood. This ’ere wood. How did you
get out of it?”
“I managed one wood, and found a road the other
side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it
was those North Downs, for the road went off into
grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful,
with gorse bushes. I did wish I ’d never come, but
suddenly it got light — just while I seemed going under
one tree. Then I found a road down to a station, and
took the first train I could back to London.”
“But was the dawn wonderful?” asked Helen.
With unforgettable sincerity he replied, “No.” The
word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down
toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his
talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the “love of
the earth ” and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these
IO
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Howards End
women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow,
an exultation, that he had seldom known.
“The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to
mention ”
“Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know.”
“ — and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it,
and so cold too. I ’m glad I did it, and yet at the time
it bored me more than I can say. And besides — you
can believe me or not as you choose — I was very hungry.
That dinner at Wimbledon — I meant it to last me all
night like other dinners. I never thought that walking
would make such a difference. Why, when you ’re
walking you want, as it were, a breakfast and luncheon
and tea during the night as well, and I ’d nothing but a
packet of Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking
back, it was n’t what you may call enjoyment. It was
more a case of sticking to it. I did stick. I — I was
determined. Oh, hang it all! what ’s the good — I mean,
the good of living in a room for ever? There one goes
on day after day, same old game, same up and down
to town, until you forget there is any other game. You
ought to see once in a way what ’s going on outside, if
it ’s only nothing particular after all.”
“I should just think you ought,” said Helen, sitting
on the edge of the table.
The sound of a lady’s voice recalled him from sincerity,
and he said: “Curious it should all come about from
reading something of Richard Jefferies.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you ’re wrong there. It
didn’t. It came from something far greater.”
But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent
after Jefferies — Borrow, Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S.
brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp
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The Mystery Explained
of books. No disrespect to these great names. The
fault is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for
sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we
mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard
had reached the destination. He had visited the county
of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its
cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve
hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go
and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind
dwelt something that was greater than Jefferies’ books
— the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and
his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was
part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow
Stonehenge.
“Then you don’t think I was foolish?” he asked,
becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for
whom Nature intended him.
“Heavens, no!” replied Margaret.
“Heaven help us if we do!” replied Helen.
“I’m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would
never understand — not if I explained for days.”
“No, it was n’t foolish!” cried Helen, her eyes aflame.
“You ’ve pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid
of you.”
“You ’ve not been content to dream as we have ”
“Though we have walked, too ”
“I must show you a picture upstairs ”
Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to
take them to their evening party.
“Oh, bother, not to say dash— I had forgotten we
were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have
a talk.”
“Yes, you must— do,” echoed Margaret.
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Howards End
Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: “No, I
shall not. It/s better like this.”
“Why better?” asked Margaret.
“No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I
shall always look back on this talk with you as one
of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this.
We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and
there we had better leave it.”
“That ’s rather a sad view of life, surely.”
“Things so often get spoiled.”
“I know,” flashed Helen, “but people don’t.”
He could not understand this. He continued in a
vein which mingled true imagination and false. What
he said was n’t wrong, but it was n’t right, and a false
note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instru-
ment might be in tune. One little strain, and it might
be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much,
but he would not call again. There was a moment’s
awkwardness, and then Helen said: “Go, then; perhaps
you know best ; but never forget you ’re better than
Jefferies.” And he went. Their hansom caught him
up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and
vanished with its accomplished load into the evening.
London was beginning to illuminate herself against
the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the
main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glim-
mered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson
battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her
smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down
Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which
adorned while it did not distract. She had never known
the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried
through her tinted wonders, very much part of the
The Mystery Explained 149
picture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had
ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels
— or, to speak more accurately, his interview with them
— were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the
first time that he had talked intimately to strangers.
The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though
the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be
denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his sus-
picions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to
people whom he had scarcely seen. It brought him
many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps
the keenest happiness he had ever known was during
a railway journey to Cambridge, where a decent-
mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They
had got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung
reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles
and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing
they could start a friendship, asked him to “coffee after
hall, ” which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and
took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where
he lodged. He did not want Romance to collide with
the Porphyrion, still less with Jacky, and people with
fuller, happier lives are slow to understand this. To
the Schlegels, as to the undergraduate, he was an inter-
esting creature, of whom they wanted to see more.
But they to him were denizens of Romance, who must
keep to the corner he had assigned them, pictures that
must not walk out of their frames.
His behaviour over Margaret’s visiting-card had
been typical. His had scarcely been a tragic marriage.
Where there is no money and no inclination to violence
tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave his
wife, and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and
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Howards End
squalor were enough. Here “that card” had come in.
Leonard, though furtive, was untidy, and left it lying
about. Jacky found it, and then began, “What ’s that
card, eh?” “Yes, don’t you wish you knew what that
card was? ” “ Len, who ’s Miss Schlegel? ” etc. Months
passed, and the card, now as a joke, now as a grievance,
was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It
followed them when they moved from Camelia Road to
Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third parties. A few
inches of pasteboard, it became the battlefield on which
the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why
did he not say, “A lady took my umbrella, another gave
me this that I might call for my umbrella”? Because
Jacky would have disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly
because he was sentimental. No affection gathered
round the card, but it symbolised the life of culture,
that Jacky should never spoil. At night he would say
to himself, “Well, at all events, she does n’t know about
that card. Yah! done her there!”
Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great
deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion — she was
only capable of drawing one conclusion — and in the
fulness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday
Leonard had refused to speak to her, and had spent
the evening observing the stars. On the Saturday
he went up, as usual, to town, but he came not back
Saturday night, nor Sunday morning, nor Sunday
afternoon. The inconvenience grew intolerable, and
though she was now of a retiring habit, and shy of
women, she went up to Wickham Place. Leonard
returned in her absence. The card, the fatal card, was
gone from the pages of Ruskin, and he guessed what
had happened.
The Mystery Explained 151
“Well?” he had exclaimed, greeting her with peals
of laughter. “I know where you’ve been, but you
don’t know where I ’ve been.”
Jacky sighed, said, “Len, I do think you might
explain,” and resumed domesticity.
Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leonard
was too silly — or it is tempting to write, too sound a
chap to attempt them. His reticence was not entirely
the shoddy article that a business life promotes, the
reticence that pretends that nothing is something, and
hides behind the Daily Telegraph. The adventurer,
also, is reticent, and it is an adventure for a clerk to
walk for a few hours in darkness. You may laugh at
him, you who have slept nights out on the veldt, with
your rifle beside you and all the atmosphere of adventure
pat. And you also may laugh who think adventures
silly. But do not be surprised if Leonard is shy whenever
he meets you, and if the Schlegels rather than Jacky
hear about the dawn.
That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish became
a permanent joy. He was at his best when he thought
of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed home beneath
fading heavens. Somehow the barriers of wealth hg,d
fallen, and there had been — he could not phrase it — a
general assertion of the wonder of the world. “My
conviction,” says the mystic, “gains infinitely the
moment another soul will believe in it,” and they had
agreed that there was something beyond life’s daily
grey. He took off his top-hat and smoothed it thought-
fully. He had hitherto supposed the unknown to
be books, literature, clever conversation, culture. One
raised oneself by study, and got upsides with the world.
But in that quick interchange a new light dawned.
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Howards End
Was that “something” walking in the dark among the
suburban hills?
He discovered that he was going bareheaded down
Regent Street. London came back with a rush. Few
were about at this hour, but all whom he passed looked
at him with a hostility that was the more impressive
because it was unconscious. He put his hat on. It
was too big; his head disappeared like a pudding into
a basin, the ears bending outwards at the touch of the
curly brim. He wore it a little backwards, and its
effect was greatly to elongate the face and to bring
out the distance between the eyes and the moustache.
Thus equipped, he escaped criticism. No one felt
uneasy as he ti tupped along the pavements, the heart
of a man ticking fast in his chest.
CHAPTER XV
A Special Case
The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure,
and when they were both full of the same subject, there
were few dinner-parties that could stand up against
them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had
more kick in it than most, but succumbed after a strug-
gle. Helen at one part of the table, Margaret at the
other, would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one else, and
somewhere about the entree their monologues collided,
fell ruining, and became common property. Nor was
this all. The dinner-party was really an informal
discussion club; there was a paper after it, read amid
coffee-cups and laughter in the drawing-room, but
dealing more or less thoughtfully with some topic of
general interest. After the paper came a debate, and
in this debate Mr. Bast also figured, appearing now
as a bright spot in civilisation, now as a dark spot,
according to the temperament of the speaker. The sub-
ject of the paper had been, ‘‘How ought I to dispose of
my money?” the reader professing to be a millionaire
on the point of death, inclined to bequeath her fortune
for the foundation of local art galleries, but open to
conviction from other sources. The various parts had
i53
154
Howards End
been assigned beforehand, and some of the speeches
were amusing. The hostess assumed the ungrateful
r61e of “the millionaire’s eldest son,” and implored
her expiring parent not to dislocate Society by allowing
such vast sums to pass out of the family. Money was
the fruit of self-denial, and the second generation had
a right to profit by the self-denial of the first. What
right had “Mr. Bast” to profit? The National Gallery
was good enough for the likes of him. After property
had had its say — a saying that is necessarily ungracious
— the various philanthropists stepped forward. Some-
thing must be done for “Mr. Bast”; his conditions must
be improved without impairing his independence; he
must have a free library, or free tennis-courts; his rent
must be paid in such a way that he did not know it was
being paid; it must be made worth his while to join
the Territorials;- he must be forcibly parted from his
uninspiring wife, the money going to her as compen-
sation; he must be assigned a Twin Star, some member
of the leisured classes who would watch over him cease-
lessly (groans from Helen) ; he must be given food but
no clothes, clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to
Venice, without either food or clothes when he arrived
there. In short, he might be given anything and every-
thing so long as it was not the money itself.
And here Margaret interrupted.
“Order, order, Miss Schlegel!” said the reader of the
paper. “You are here, I understand, to advise me in
the interests of the Society for the Preservation of
Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I
cannot have you speaking out of your r61e. It makes
my poor head go round, and I think you forget that I
am very ill,”
155
A Special Case
“Your head won’t go round if only you ’ll listen to
my argument,” said Margaret. “Why not give him
the money itself? You ’re supposed to have about
thirty thousand a year.”
“Have I? I thought I had a million.”
“Was n’t a million your capital? Dear me! we ought
to have settled that. Still, it does n’t matter. Whatever
you ’ve got, I order you to give as many poor men as you
can three hundred a year each.”
“But that would be pauperising them,” said an
earnest girl, who liked the Schlegels, but thought them
a little unspiritual at times.
“Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall
would not pauperise a man. It is these little driblets,
distributed among too many, that do the harm. Money ’s
educational. It ’s far more educational than the things
it buys.” There was a protest. “In a sense,” added
Margaret, but the protest continued. “Well, isn’t
the most civilized thing going, the man who has learnt
to wear his income properly?”
“Exactly what your Mr. Basts won’t do.”
“Give them a chance. Give them money. Don’t
dole them out poetry-books and railway-tickets like
babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these
things. When your Socialism comes it may be different,
and we may think in terms of commodities instead of
cash. Till it comes give people cash, for it is the warp
of civilisation, whatever the woof may be. The im-
agination ought to play upon money and realise it
vividly, for it ’s the — the second most important thing
in the world. It is so slurred over and hushed up, there
is so little clear thinking — oh, political economy, of
course, but so few of us think clearly about our own
156
Howards End
private incomes, and admit that independent thoughts
are in nine cases out of ten the result of independent
means. Money: give Mr. Bast money, and don’t
bother about his ideals. He ’ll pick up those for himself. ”
She leant back while the more earnest members of
the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind,
though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to
hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel
was asked however she could say such dreadful things,
and what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole
world and lost his own soul. She answered, “Nothing,
but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a
little of the world.” Then they said, “No, we do not
believe it,” and she admitted that an overworked clerk
may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the
effort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he
will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world,
will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain
to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows.
Others had attacked the fabric of Society — Property,
Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few human
beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could
be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless :
the many-coloured efforts thereto spreading over the
vast area like films and resulting in an universal grey.
To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the
utmost she dare hope for.
Between the idealists, and the political economists,
Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they
agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the adminis-
tration of the millionaire’s money in their own hands.
The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of “personal
supervision and mutual help,” the effect of which was
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A Special Case
to alter poor people until they became exactly like people
who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently re-
marked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among
the millionaire’s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted
the claim, and another claim was at once set up by
Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire’s
housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid;
was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor?
The millionaire then read out her last will and testament,
in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious
parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the
playful — in a men’s debate is the reverse more general? —
but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen
happy ladies dispersed to their homes.
Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as
far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all
the way. When she had gone they were conscious of
an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening.
They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps
and the plane-trees, following the line of the embank-
ment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English
cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there
occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled
out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the
whisper of the rising tide. There is something conti-
nental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space
used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than
here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind
them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in
which some endless trilogy was performing, and they
themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not
mind losing a little of the second act.
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Howards End
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“Does n’t matter.”
The earnest girl’s train rumbled away over the bridge.
“I say, Helen ”
“Well?”
“Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think we won’t.”
“As you like.”
“It’s no good, I think, unless you really mean to
know people. The discussion brought that home to
me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of
excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We
must n’t play at friendship. No, it ’s no good.”
“There’s Mrs. Lanoline, too,” Helen yawned. “So
dull.”
“Just so, and possibly worse than dull.”
“ I should like to know how he got hold of your card. ”
“But he said — something about a concert and an
umbrella ”
“Then did the card see the wife ”
“Helen, come to bed.”
“No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me;
oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?”
“Yes.”
“Then what ’s the woof?”
“Very much what one chooses,” said Margaret.
“ It ’s something that is n’t money — one can’t say more.”
“Walking at night?”
“Probably.”
“For Tibby, Oxford?”
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A Special Case
“It seems so.”
“For you?”
“Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin
to think it ’s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly
Howards End.”
One’s own name will carry immense distances. Mr.
Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away,
heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards
the speakers.
“It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more
important than people,” continued Margaret.
“Why, Meg? They’re so much nicer generally.
I’ d rather think of that forester’s house in Pomerania
than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it. ”
“I believe we shall come to care about people less and
less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier
it becomes to replace them. It ’s one of the curses of
London. I quite expect to end my life caring most
for a place.”
Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks
since they had met.
“How do you do? ” he cried. “I thought I recognised
your voices. Whatever are you both doing down
here?”
His tones were protective. He implied that one
ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a
male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret ac-
cepted it as part of the good man’s equipment.
“What an age it is since I ’ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox.
I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you
have good news of your son.”
“Paul?” said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette,
and sitting down between them. “Oh, Paul ’s all right.
160 Howards End
We had a line from Madeira. He ’ll be at work again
by now.”
“Ugh — ” said Helen, shuddering from complex
causes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is n’t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?”
“Some one ’s got to go,” he said simply. “England
will never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared
to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa,
Ger — untold complications may follow. Now tell me
all your news. ”
“Oh, we’ve had a splendid evening,” cried Helen,
who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. “We
belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret
and I — all women, but there is a discussion after. This
evening it was on how one ought to leave one’s money —
whether to one’s family, or to the poor, and if so how —
oh, most interesting.”
The man of business smiled. Since his wife’s death
he had almost doubled his income. He was an im-
portant figure at last, a reassuring name on company
prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The
world seemed in his grasp as he listened to the River
Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So
wonderful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him.
He had helped to shorten its long tidal trough by taking
shares in the lock at Teddington, and if he and other
capitalists thought good, some day it could be shortened
again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable
but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his
hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he
did not know could not be worth knowing.
1 ‘ Sounds a most original entertainment ! ” he exclaimed ,
A Special Case 161
and laughed in his pleasant way. “I wish Evie would
go to that sort of thing. But she has n’t the time.
She ’s taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers — jolly little
dogs.”
“I expect we ’d better be doing the same, really.”
“We pretend we’re improving ourselves, you see,”
said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is
not of the kind that returns, and she had bitter mem-
ories of the days when a speech such as he had just made
would have impressed her favourably. “We suppose
it a good thing to waste an evening once a fortnight
over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may be better
to breed dogs.”
“ Not at all. I don’t agree with your sister. There ’s
nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often
wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster.
It would have helped me no end.”
1 ‘ Quickness ? ’ ’
“Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time
I ’ve missed scoring a point because the other man has
had the gift of the gab and I have n’t. Oh, I believe
in these discussions. ”
The patronising tone, thought Margaret, came well
enough from a man who was old enough to be their
father. She had always maintained that Mr. Wilcox
had a charm. In times of sorrow or emotion his in-
adequacy had pained her, but it was pleasant to listen
to him now, and to watch his thick brown moustache
and high forehead confronting the stars. But Helen
was nettled. The aim of their debates she implied was
Truth.
“Oh yes, it doesn’t much matter what subject you
take,” said he.
ii
Howards End
162
Margaret laughed and said, “But this is going to be
far better than the debate itself.” Helen recovered
herself and laughed too. “No, I won’t go on,” she
declared. “I ’ll just put our special case to Mr. Wilcox.”
“About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He ’ll be more lenient
to a special case. ”
“But, Mr. Wilcox, do first light another cigarette.
It ’s this. We ’ve just come across a young fellow,
who ’s evidently very poor, and who seems interest ”
“What ’s his profession?”
“Clerk.”
“What in?”
“Do you remember, Margaret?”
“Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company.”
“Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new
hearth rug. He seems interesting, in some ways very,
and one wishes one could help him. He is married to
a wife whom he does n’t seem to care for much. He
likes books, and what one may roughly call adventure,
and if he had a chance — But he is so poor. He lives
a life where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and
clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too
strong for him and that he will sink. Well, he got
mixed up in our debate. He was n’t the subject of it,
but it seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a million-
aire died, and desired to leave money to help such a
man. How should he be helped? Should he be given
three hundred pounds a year direct, which was Mar-
garet’s plan? Most of them thought this would pauper-
ise him. Should he and those like him be given free
libraries? I said ‘No!’ He doesn’t want more books
to read, but to read books rightly. My suggestion
was he should be given something every year towards
A Special Case 163
a summer holiday, but then there is his wife, and they
said she would have to go too. Nothing seemed quite
right! Now what do you think? Imagine that you
were a millionaire, and wanted to help the poor. What
would you do?”
Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below
the standard indicated, laughed exuberantly. “My
dear Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex
has been unable to tread. I will not add another plan
to the numerous excellent ones that have been already
suggested. My only contribution is this: let your young
friend clear out of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Com-
pany with all possible speed.”
“Why?” said Margaret.
He lowered his voice. “This is between friends.
It ’ll be in the Receiver’s hands before Christmas.
It’ll smash,” he added, thinking that she had not
understood.
“ Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he ’ll have to
get another place!”
“ Will have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks.
Let him get one now.”
“Rather than wait, to make sure?”
“Decidedly.”
“Why ’s that?”
Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice.
“Naturally the man who’s in a situation when he
applies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position,
than the man who is n’t. It looks as if he ’s worth
something. I know by myself— (this is letting you
into the State secrets)— it affects an employer greatly.
Human nature, I ’m afraid.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” murmured Margaret,
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Howards End
while Helen said, “Our human nature appears to be the
other way round. We employ people because they ’re
unemployed. The boot man, for instance.”
“And how does he clean the boots?”
“Not well,” confessed Margaret.
“There you are!”
“Then do you really advise us to tell this youth ?”
“I advise nothing,” he interrupted, glancing up and
down the Embankment, in case his indiscretion had been
overheard. “I ought n’t to have spoken — but I happen
to know, being more or less behind the scenes. The
Porphyrion ’s a bad, bad concern — Now, don’t say I
said so. It ’s outside the Tariff Ring.”
“Certainly I won’t say. In fact, I don’t know what
that means. ”
“I thought an insurance company never smashed,”
was Helen’s contribution. “Don’t the others always
run in and save them?”
“You’re thinking of reinsurance,” said Mr. Wilcox
mildly. “It is exactly there that the Porphyrion is
weak. It has tried to undercut, has been badly hit
by a long series of small fires, and it has n’t been able
to reinsure. I ’m afraid that public companies don’t
save one another for love.”
“ ‘Human nature,’ I suppose,” quoted Helen, and he
laughed and agreed that it was. When Margaret said
that she supposed that clerks, like every one else, found
it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he
replied, “Yes, extremely,” and rose to rejoin his friends.
He knew by his own office — seldom a vacant post, and
hundreds of applicants for it; at present no vacant
post.
' “And how 's Howards End looking?” said Margaret,
A Special Case 165
wishing to change the subject before they parted. Mr.
Wilcox was a little apt to think one wanted to get
something out of him.
“It ’s let.”
“Really. And you wandering homeless in long-
haired Chelsea? How strange are the ways of Fate!”
“No; it’s let unfurnished. We’ve moved.”
“Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for
ever. E vie never told me. ”
“I dare say when you met Evie the thing wasn’t
settled. We only moved a week ago. Paul has rather
a feeling for the old place, and we held on for him to
have his holiday there; but, really, it is impossibly
small. Endless drawbacks. I forget whether you ’ve
been up to it?”
“As far as the house, never.”
“Well, Howards End is one of those converted farms.
They don’t really do, spend what you will on them.
We messed away with a garage all among the wych-
elm roots, and last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow
and attempted a rockery. Evie got rather keen on Alpine
plants. But it didn’t do — no, it didn’t do. You re-
member, your sister will remember, the farm with those
abominable guinea-fowls, and the hedge that the old
woman never would cut properly, so that it all went thin
at the bottom. And, inside the house, the beams — and
the staircase through a door — picturesque enough, but
not a place to live in.” He glanced over the parapet
cheerfully. “Full tide. And the position was n’t right
either. The neighbourhood ’s getting suburban. Either
be in London or out of it, I say; so we ’ve taken a house
in Ducie Street, close to Sloane Street, and a place right
down in Shropshire — Oniton Grange. Ever heard of
166
Howards End
Oniton? Do come and see us — right away from every-
where, up towards Wales.”
“What a change!” said Margaret. But the change
was in her own voice, which had become most sad. “I
can’t imagine Howards End or Hilton without you.”
“Hilton isn’t without us,” he replied. “Charles is
there still.”
“Still?” said Margaret, who had not kept up with
the Charles’s. “But I thought he was still at Epsom.
They were furnishing that Christmas — one Christmas.
How everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles
from our windows very often. Wasn’t it Epsom?”
“Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles,
the good chap” — his voice dropped — “thought I should
be lonely. I did n’t want him to move, but he would,
and took a house at the other end of Hilton, down by
the Six Hills. He had a motor, too. There they all
are, a very jolly party — he and she and the two
grandchildren. ”
“ I manage other people’s affairs so much better than
they manage them themselves,” said Margaret as they
shook hands. “When you moved out of Howards End,
I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I
should have kept so remarkable a place in the family.”
“So it is,” he replied. “I haven’t sold it, and don’t
mean to.”
“No; but none of you are there.”
“ Oh, we ’ve got a splendid tenant — Hamar Bryce,
an invalid. If Charles ever wanted it — but he won’t.
Dolly is so dependent on modern conveniences. No,
we have all decided against Howards End. We like
it in a way, but now we feel that it is neither one thing
nor the other. One must have one thing or the other. ”
A Special Case 167
“And some people are lucky enough to have both.
You ’re doing yourself proud, Mr. Wilcox. My
congratulations. ”
“And mine,” said Helen.
“Do remind Evie to come and see us — 2 Wickham
Place. We shan’t be there very long, either.”
“You, too, on the move?”
“Next September,” Margaret sighed.
1 1 Every one moving ! Good-bye. ’ ’
The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over
the * parapet and watched it sadly. Mr. Wilcox had
forgotten his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was
probably forgetting. Every one moving. Is it worth
while attempting the past when there is this continual
flux even in the hearts of men?
Helen roused her by saying: “What a prosperous
vulgarian Mr. Wilcox has grown! I have very little
use for him in these days. However, he did tell us about
the Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon
as ever we get home, and tell him to clear out of it at
once.”
“ Do; yes, that ’s worth doing. Let us. ”
“Let ’s ask him to tea. ”
CHAPTER XVI
The Schlegels Apply their Theories
Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday.
But he was right; the visit proved a conspicuous failure.
“ Sugar?” said Margaret.
“Cake?” said Helen. “The big cake or the little
deadlies? I ’m afraid you thought my letter rather
odd, but we ’ll explain — we are n’t odd, really — nor
affected, really. We’re over-expressive — that’s all.”
As a lady ’s lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was
not an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood
there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious
repartee. His wit was the Cockney’s; it opened no
doors into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short
by “The more a lady has to say, the better,” adminis-
tered waggishly.
“Oh yes,” she said.
“Ladies brighten ”
“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams.
Let me give you a plate. ”
“How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret.
He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have these
women prying into his work. They were Romance,
1 68
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 169
and so was the room to which he had at last penetrated,
with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its
walls, and so were the very tea-cups, with their delicate
borders of wild strawberries. But he would not let
Romance interfere with his life. There is the devil
to pay then.
“Oh, well enough, ” he answered.
“Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that ’s so” — becoming rather offended. “It ’s
funny how things get round.”
“Why funny?” asked Helen, who did not follow the
workings of his mind. “It was written as large as life
on your card, and considering we wrote to you there,
and that you replied on the stamped paper ”
“Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big
Insurance Companies?” pursued Margaret.
“It depends on what you call big.”
“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern,
that offers a reasonably good career to its employes.”
“I couldn’t say — some would tell you one thing
and others another,” said the employ^ uneasily. “For
my own part” — he shook his head — “I only believe
half I hear. Not that even; it ’s safer. Those clever
ones come to the worse grief, I ’ve often noticed. Ah,
you can’t be too careful. ”
He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going
to be one of those moustaches that always droop into
tea-cups — more bother than they ’re worth, surely,
and not fashionable either.
“ I quite agree, and that ’s why I was curious to know;
is it a solid, well-established concern?”
Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner
of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired
170
Howards End
to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under
these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed
safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion
was the Porphyrion of the advertisement — a giant, in
the classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held
in one hand a burning torch, and pointed with the other
to St. Paul’s and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money
was inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions.
This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write
letters, to explain the regulations to new clients, and
re-explain them to old ones. A giant was of an impulsive
morality — one knew that much. He would pay for
Mrs. Munt’s hearthrug with ostentatious haste, a large
claim he would repudiate quietly, and fight court by
court. But his true fighting weight, his antecedents,
his amours with other members of the commercial
Pantheon — all these were as uncertain to ordinary
mortals as were the escapades of Zeus. While the gods
are powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in
the days of their decadence that a strong light beats
into heaven.
“We were told the Porphyrion ’s no go,” blurted
Helen. “We wanted to tell you; that ’s why we wrote.”
“A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently
reinsured,” said Margaret.
Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the
Porphyrion. “You can tell your friend,” he said,
“that he ’s quite wrong.”
“Oh, good!”
The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be
wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being
wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been
misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil.
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 171
"‘Wrong, so to speak,” he added.
“How ‘so to speak?”
“I mean I would n’t say he ’s right altogether.”
But this was a blunder. “Then he is right partly,”
said the elder woman, quick as lightning.
Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if
it came to that.
“Mr. Bast, I don’t understand business, and I dare
say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what
makes a concern ‘right’ or ‘wrong’?”
Leonard sat back with a sigh.
“Our friend, who is also a business man, was so posi-
tive. He said before Christmas ”
“And advised you to clear out of it,” concluded
Helen. “But I don’t see why he should know better
than you do. ”
Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say
that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a
commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could
he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it
away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving
it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was
something between the two, with vast possibilities in
either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four
sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between
the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively,
but “the Miss Schlegels” still remained a composite
Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory
speeches were the product of a single mind.
“One can but see,” he remarked, adding, “as Ibsen
says, ‘things happen.’ ” He was itching to talk about
books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute
after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with im-
172
Howards End
perfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or
praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew an-
noyed— perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about
not being one of those who minded their affairs being
talked over by others, but they did not take the hint.
Men might have shown more tact. Women, however
tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot
see why we should shroud our incomes and our pro-
spects in a veil. “How much exactly have you, and
how much do you expect to have next June?” And
these were women with a theory, who held that reticence
about money matters is absurd, and that life would be
truer if each would state the exact size of the golden
island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp
over which he throws the woof that is not money. How
can we do justice to the pattern otherwise?
And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky
and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no
longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books fever-
ishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when
Margaret said, “So you like Carlyle,” and then the door
opened, and “Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox” entered, pre-
ceded by two prancing puppies.
“Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly
sweet!” screamed Helen, falling on her hands and
knees.
“We brought the little fellows round,” said Mr.
Wilcox.
“ I bred ’em myself. ”
“Oh, really ! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies. ”
“I ’ve got to be going now,” said Leonard sourly.
“But play with puppies a little first.”
“This is Ahab, that ’s Jezebel,” said Evie, who was
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 173
one of those who name animals after the less successful
characters of Old Testament history.
“I ’ve got to be going. ”
Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice
him.
“Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba — Must you be really?
Good-bye!”
“Come again,” said Helen from the floor.
Then Leonard’s gorge arose. Why should he come
again? What was the good of it? He said roundly:
“No, I shan’t; I knew it would be a failure.”
Most people would have let him go. “A little mis-
take. We tried knowing another class — impossible.”
But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had
attempted friendship, and they would take the conse-
quences. Helen retorted, “I call that a very rude re-
mark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?”
and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar
row.
“You ask me why I turn on you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to have me here for?’
“To help you, you silly boy!” cried Helen. “And
don’t shout.”
11 1 don’t want your patronage. I don’t want your
tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to un-
settle me for?” He turned to Mr. Wilcox. “I put it
to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my
brain picked?”
Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humor-
ous strength that he could so well command. “Are
we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or
shall we go?”
174
Howards End
But Margaret ignored him.
“I’m connected with a leading insurance company,
sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these
— ladies” (he drawled the word). “I come, and it’s
to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?”
“Highly unfair,” said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp
from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming
dangerous.
“There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman
says. There! Not content with” — pointing at Mar-
garet— “you can’t deny it.” His voice rose; he was
falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. “But
as soon as I ’m useful it ’s a very different thing. * Oh
yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his
brains.’ Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I ’m
a quiet fellow: I ’m law-abiding, I don’t wish any
unpleasantness; but I — I ”
“You,” said Margaret — “you — you ”
Laughter from Evie as at a repartee.
“You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole
Star.”
More laughter.
“You saw the sunrise.”
Laughter.
“You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling
us all — away past books and houses to the truth. You
were looking for a real home.”
“I fail to see the connection,” said Leonard, hot with
stupid anger.
“So do I.” There was a pause. “You were that
last Sunday — you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and
my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help
you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 175
have you here out of charity — which bores us — but
because we hoped there would be a connection between
last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your
stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do
not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered
into mine, but into yours, we thought — Have n’t
we all to struggle against life’s daily grey ness, against
pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against sus-
picion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others
I have known by remembering some place — some beloved
place or tree — we thought you one of these.”
“Of course, if there’s been any misunderstanding,”
mumbled Leonard, “all I can do is to go. But I beg
to state — ” He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced
at his boots and made him look ridiculous. “You
were picking my brain for official information — I can
prove it — I — ” He blew his nose and left them.
“Can I help you now?” said Mr. Wilcox, turning to
Margaret. “May I have one quiet word with him in
the hall?”
“Helen, go after him — do anything — anything — to
make the noodle understand.”
Helen hesitated.
“But really — ” said their visitor. “Ought she to?”
At once she went.
He resumed. “I would have chimed in, but I felt
that you could polish him off for yourselves — I did n’t
interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel — abso-
lutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there
are very few women who could have managed him.”
“Oh yes,” said Margaret distractedly.
“Bowling him over with those long sentences was
what fetched me,” cried Evie.
176
Howards End
“Yes, indeed,” chuckled her father; “all that part
about ‘mechanical cheerfulness’ — oh, fine!”
“I’m very sorry,” said Margaret, collecting herself.
“ He ’s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set
him off. It has been most unpleasant for you.”
“ Oh, I did n’t mind. ” Then he changed his mood. He
asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission
given, said: “Ought n’t you really to be more careful?”
Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed
after Helen. “ Do you realise that it ’s all your fault?”
she said. “You ’re responsible. ’ ’
“I?”
“This is the young man whom we were to warn
against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and — look!”
Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. “I hardly consider that
a fair deduction, ” he said.
“Obviously unfair,” said Margaret. “I was only
thinking how tangled things are. It ’s our fault mostly
— neither yours nor his. ”
“Not his?”
“No.”
“Miss Schlegel, you are too kind.”
“Yes, indeed,” nodded Evie, a little contemptuously.
“You behave much too well to people, and then they
impose on you. I know the world and that type of
man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had
not been treating him properly. You must keep that
type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves.
Sad, but true. They are n’t our sort, and one must face
the fact.
“Ye-es.”
“Do admit that we should never have had the out-
burst if he was a gentleman.”
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 177
“ I admit it willingly, ” said Margaret, who was pacing
up and down the room. “A gentleman would have kept
his suspicions to himself.’'
Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness.
'“What did he suspect you of?”
“Of wanting to make money out of him.”
“Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?”
“Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding
suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would
have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does
make men intolerable brutes. ”
“I come back to my original point. You ought to be
more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to
have orders not to let such people in.”
She turned to him frankly. “Let me explain exactly
why we like this man, and want to see him again.”
“That’s your clever way of talking. I shall never
believe you like him. ”
“I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical ad-
venture, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and
shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly,
he cares for something special in adventure. It is
quickest to call that special something poetry ”
“Oh, he ’s one of that writer sort.”
“No — oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be
loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of
books, culture — horrible; we want him to wash out his
brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him
how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either
friends or the country, some” — she hesitated — “either
some very dear person or some very dear place seems
necessary to relieve life’s daily grey, and to show that
it is grey. If possible, one should have both.”
za
I7»
Howards End
Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let
them run past. Others he caught and criticised with
admirable lucidity.
“Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mis-
take. This young bounder has a life of his own. What
right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or,
as you call it, ‘grey’?”
“Because ”
“One minute. You know nothing about him. He
probably has his own joys and interests — wife, children,
snug little home. That ’s where we practical fellows ” —
he smiled — “are more tolerant than you intellectuals.
We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging
on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain
man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I
quite grant — I look at the faces of the clerks in my own
office, and observe them to be dull, but I don’t know
what ’s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London.
I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel,
and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry
with* you. What do you know about London? You
only see civilisation from the outside. I don’t say in
your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to
morbidity, discontent, and Socialism.”
She admitted the strength of his position, though it
undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts
of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she
retreated to what she called her “second line” — to the
special facts of the case.
“His wife is an old bore,” she said simply. “He
never came home last Saturday night because he wanted
to be alone, and she thought he was with us.”
“With you?1'
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 179
‘‘Yes.” Evie tittered. “He hasn’t got the cosy
home that you assumed. He needs outside interests.”
“Naughty young man!” cried the girl.
“Naughty?” said Margaret, who hated naughtiness
more than sin. “When you ’re married, Miss Wilcox,
won’t you want outside interests?”
“He has apparently got them,” put in Mr. Wilcox
slyly.
“Yes, indeed, father.”
“He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that,” said
Margaret, pacing away rather crossly.
“Oh, I dare say!”
“ Miss Wilcox, he was ! ”
“M-m-m-m!” from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the
episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would
not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret’s
reputation as an emancipated woman.
“He said so, and about such a thing he would n’t lie. ”
They both began to laugh.
“ That ’s where I differ from you. Men lie about their
positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that
sort.”
He shook his head. “Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but
I know the type.”
“I said before — he isn’t a type. He cares about
adventures rightly. He ’s certain that our smug ex-
istence is n’t all. He ’s vulgar and hysterical and
bookish, but don’t think that sums him up. There ’s
manhood in him as well. Yes, that ’s what I ’m trying
to say. He ’s a real man.”
As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr.
Wilcox’s defences fell. She saw back to the real man
in him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions.
i8o
Howards End
A woman and two men — they had formed the magic
triangle of sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy,
in case the female was attracted by another male.
Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with
the beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the
real shame. It is jealousy, not love, that connects us
with the farmyard intolerably, and calls up visions of
two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret
crushed complacency down because she was civilised.
Mr. Wilcox, uncivilised, continued to feel anger long
after he had rebuilt his defences, and was again pre-
senting a bastion to the world.
“ Miss Schlegel, you ’re a pair of dear creatures, but
you really must be careful in this uncharitable world.
What does your brother say?”
“I forget.”
“Surely he has some opinion?”
“He laughs, if I remember correctly.”
“He ’s very clever, is n’t he?” said Evie, who had met
and detested Tibby at Oxford.
“Yes, pretty well — but I wonder what Helen’s doing.”
“She is very young to undertake this sort of thing,”
said Mr. Wilcox.
Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no
sound, and "Mr. Bast’s topper was missing from the
hall.
“Helen!” she called.
“Yes!” replied a voice from the library.
“You in there?”
“Yes — he ’s gone some time. ”
Margaret went to her. “Why, you’re all alone,”
she said.
“Yes — it ’s all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature ”
The Schlegels Apply their Theories 181
“Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later — Mr.
W much concerned, and slightly titillated.”
“Oh, I ’ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor
dear Mr. Bast ! he wanted to talk literature, and we would
talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so
worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily.”
“Well done,” said Margaret, kissing her, “but come
into the drawing-room now, and don’t talk about him
to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing.”
Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that
reassured their visitor — this hen at all events was
fancy-free.
“He ’s gone with my blessing,” she cried, “and now
for puppies.”
As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter:
“I am really concerned at the way those girls go on.
They are as clever as you make ’em, but unpractical —
God bless me ! One of these days they ’ll go too far.
Girls like that ought n’t to live alone in London. Until
they marry, they ought to have some one to look after
them. We must look in more often — we ’re better
than no one. You like them, don’t you, Evie?”
Evie replied: “Helen’s right enough, but I can’t
stand the toothy one. And I shouldn’t have called
either of them girls.”
Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the
glow of youth under sunburn, built firmly and firm-
lipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could do in the
way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and
her father were the only things she loved, but the net
of matrimony was being prepared for her, and a few
days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an
uncle of Mrs. Charles’s, and he was attracted to her.
CHAPTER XVII
A Surprise for Margaret
The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a
proprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture be-
comes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights
wondering where, where on earth they and all their
belongings would be deposited in September next.
Chairs, tables, pictures, books, that had rumbled down
to them through the generations, must rumble forward
again like a slide of rubbish to which she longed to give
the final push, and send toppling into the sea. But
there were all their father’s books — they never read
them, but they were their father’s, and must be kept.
There was the marble-topped chiffonier — their mother
had set store by it, they could not remember why.
Round every knob and cushion in the house gathered a
sentiment that was at times personal, but more often a
faint piety to the dead, a prolongation of rites that
might have ended at the grave.
It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen and
Tibby came to think of it; Margaret was too busy with
the house-agents. The feudal ownership of land did
bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of mov-
ables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are
182
A Surprise for Margaret 183
reverting to the civilisation of luggage, and historians
! of the future will note how the middle classes accreted
possessions without taking root in the earth, and may
find in this the secret of their imaginative poverty.
The Schlegels were certainly the poorer for the loss
of Wickham Place. It had helped to balance their lives,
and almost to counsel them. Nor is their ground-
landlord spiritually the richer. He has built flats on
its site, his motor-cars grow swifter, his exposures of
Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt the precious
distillation of the years, and no chemistry of his can
give it back to society again.
Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle
on a house before they left town to pay their annual
visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted
to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull,
was stable, and this year she longed more than usual
for its fresh air and for the magnificent downs that guard
it on the north. But London thwarted her ; in its atmos-
phere she could not concentrate. London only stimu-
lates, it cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying over
its surface for a house without knowing what sort of a
house she wanted, was paying for many a thrilling
sensation in the past. She could not even break loose
from culture, and her time was wasted by concerts
which it would be a sin to miss, and invitations which
it would never do to refuse. At last she grew desperate;
she resolved that she would go nowhere and be at home
to no one until she found a house, and broke the resolu-
tion in half an hour.
Once she had humorously lamented that she had
never been to Simpson’s restaurant in the Strand.
Now a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her to
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Howards End
lunch there. Mr. Cahill was coming, and the three
would have such a jolly chat, and perhaps end up at the
Hippodrome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie,
and no desire to meet her fiance, and she was surprised
that Helen, who had been far funnier about Simpson’s,
had not been asked instead. But the invitation touched
her by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox
better than she supposed, and declaring that she “simply
must,” she accepted.
But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restau-
rant, staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of
athletic women, her heart failed her anew. Miss
Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her engagement.
Her voice was gruffer, her manner more downright,
and she was inclined to patronise the more foolish virgin.
Margaret was silly enough to be pained at this. De-
pressed at her isolation, she saw not only houses and
furniture, but the vessel of life itself slipping past her,
with people like Evie and Mr. Cahill on board.
There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us,
and one of them came to her at Simpson’s in the Strand.
As she trod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted thickly,
as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton
were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had
a strong, if erroneous, coviction of her own futility, and
wished she had never come out of her backwater,
where nothing happened except art and literature,
and where no one ever got married or succeeded
in remaining engaged. Then came a little surprise.
“Father might be of the party — yes, father was.”
With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet
him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished.
“I thought I ’d get round if I could, ” said he. “Evie
A Surprise for Margaret 185
told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secured
a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don’t
pretend you want to sit by your old father, because
you don’t. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity.
My goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round
after your young clerks?”
“No, after houses,” said Margaret, edging past him
into the box. “I’m hungry, not tired; I want to eat
heaps.”
“That ’s good. What ’ll you have?” '
“Fish pie,” said she, with a glance at the menu.
“Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson’s.
It ’s not a bit the thing to go for here.”
“Go for something for me, then,” said Margaret,
pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his
reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously.
“Saddle of mutton,” said he after profound reflection;
“and cider to drink. That’s the type of thing. I
like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so
thoroughly Old English. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” said Margaret, who didn’t. The order was
given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr.
Wilcox’s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent,
and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on
sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later
on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the
“No, I did n’t; yes, you did” type — conversation which,
though fascinating to those who are engaged in it,
neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.
“It’s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip every-
where ’s my motto. ”
“Perhaps it does make life more human.”
“Then the fellows know one again. Especially in
186 Howards End
the East, if you tip, they remember you from year’s
end to year’s end.”
“Have you been in the East?”
“Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for
sport and business to Cyprus; some military society
of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed,
helo to keep one ’s memory green. But you, of course,
think this shockingly cynical. How ’s your discussion
society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?”
“No, I ’m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ’ve already
told you once. Do you know of any houses?”
“Afraid I don’t.”
“Well, what ’s the point of being practical if you
can’t find two distressed females a house? We merely
want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of
them. ”
“Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn
house-agent for her!”
“What ’s that, father?”
“I want a new home in September, and some one
must find it. I can’t.”
“Percy, do you know of anything?”
“I can’t say I do,” said Mr. Cahill.
“How like you! You ’re never any good.”
“Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any
good. Oh, come!”
“Well, you aren’t. Miss Schlegel, is he?”
The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops
at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She
sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored
her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally,
and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries
about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and
A Surprise for Margaret 187
admired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of
our past. Though no more Old English than the works
of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly
that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it
was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer
semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps
of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. “Right you are!
I ’ll cable out to Uganda this evening,’’ came from the
table behind. “Their Emperor wants war; well, let
him have it,” was the opinion of a clergyman. She
smiled at such incongruities. “Next time,” she said
to Mr. Wilcox, “you shall come to lunch with me at
Mr. Eustace Miles’s.”
“With pleasure.”
“No, you’d hate it,” she said, pushing her glass
towards him for some more cider. “It’s all proteids
and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg
your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura.”
“A what?”
“Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man!
I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?”
He had heard of astral planes, and censured them.
“Just so. Luckily it was Helen’s aura, not mine,
and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses.
I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the
man went.”
“Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls.
No one ’s ever asked me about my — what d’ye call it?
Perhaps I ’ve not got one.”
“You’re bound to have one, but it may be such
a terrible colour that no one dares mention it.”
“Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe
in the supernatural and all that?”
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Howards End
‘‘Too difficult a question.”
‘‘Why’s that? Gruy&re or Stilton?”
“Gruyere, please.”
“Better have Stilton.
“Stilton. Because, though I don’t believe in auras,
and think Theosophy’s only a halfway-house ”
“ — Yet there may be something in it all the same,”
he concluded, with a frown.
“Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong
direction. I can’t explain. I don’t believe in all these
fads, and yet I don’t like saying that I don’t believe
in them.”
He seemed unsatisfied, and said: “So you wouldn’t
give me your word that you don't hold with astral bodies
and all the rest of it?”
“I could,” said Margaret, surprised that the point
was of any importance to him. “Indeed, I will. When
I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying
to be funny. But why do you want this settled?”
“I don’t know.”
“Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know.”
“Yes, I am,” “No, you’re not,” burst from the
lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment,
and then changed the subject.
“How’s your house?”
“ Much the same as when you honoured it last week. ”
“ I don’t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course. ”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Can’t you turn out your tenant and let it to us?
We’re nearly demented.”
“Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I
thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice:
fix your district, then fix your price, and then don’t
A Surprise for Margaret 189
budge. That ’s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton.
I said to myself, ‘ I mean to be exactly here, ’ and I was,
and Oniton ’s a place in a thousand.”
“But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerise
houses — cow them with an eye, and up they come,
trembling. Ladies can’t. It ’s the houses that are
mesmerising me. I ’ve no control over the saucy
things. Houses are alive. No?”
“I ’m out of my depth, ” he said, and added: “ Did n’t
you talk rather like that to your office boy?”
“ Did I? — I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same
way to every one — or try to.”
“Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose
he understood?”
“That ’s his lookout. I don’t believe in suiting my
conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit
upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well
enough, but it ’s no more like the real thing than money
is like food. There ’s no nourishment in it. You
pass it to the lower classes, and they pass it back to you,
and this you call ‘social intercourse’ or ‘mutual en-
deavour, ’ when it ’s mutual priggishness if it ’s any-
thing. Our friends at Chelsea don’t see this. They
say one ought to be at all costs intelligible, and
sacrifice ”
“Lower classes,” interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it were
thrusting his hand into her speech. “Well, you do
admit that there are rich and poor. That ’s something.”
Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid,
or did he understand her better than she understood
herself?
“You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally,
in a few years there would be rich and poor again just
Howards End
190
the same. The hard-working man would come to the
top, the wastrel sink to the bottom.”
“ Every one admits that.”
“Your Socialists don’t.”
“My Socialists do. Yours mayn’t; but I strongly
suspect yours of being not Socialists, but ninepins,
which you have constructed for your own amusement.
I can’t imagine any living creature who would bowl
over quite so easily.”
He would have resented this had she not been a
woman. But women may say anything — it was one
of his holiest beliefs — and he only retorted, with a gay
smile: “I don’t care. You’ve made two damaging
admissions, and I ’m heartily with you in both.”
In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had
excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave.
Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that
the entertainment had been planned by the father.
He and she were advancing out of their respective
families towards a more intimate acquaintance. It
had begun long ago. She had been his wife’s friend
and, as such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette
as a memento. It was pretty of him to have given that
vinaigrette, and he had always preferred her to Helen —
unlike most men. But the advance had been astonish-
ing lately. They had done more in a week than in two
years, and were really beginning to know each other.
She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace
Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby
as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body-
building dishes with humility.
Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They
had not succeeded in finding a uew home.
CHAPTER XVIII
“Yes” or “No”
As they were seated at Aunt Juley’s breakfast- table at
The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoy-
ing the view of the bay, a letter came for Margaret and
threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox.
It announced an “important change” in his plans.
Owing to Evie’s marriage, he had decided to give up his
house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a
yearly tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated
frankly what he would do for them and what he would
not do. Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret
was to come up at once — the words were underlined, as
is necessary when dealing with women — and to go over
the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would
oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent.
The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it
meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her
to Simpson’s, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to
London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put
it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that
her brain would cry, “Rubbish, you ’re a self-conscious
fool ! ” But her brain only tingled a little and was silent,
and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and
191
192
Howards End
wondering whether the news would seem strange to the
others.
As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own
voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it.
The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversa-
tion her fears vanished.
“You need n’t go though — ” began her hostess.
“I need n’t, but had n’t I better? It ’s really getting
rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and
the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage
into the street. We don’t know what we want , that ’s the
mischief with us ”
“No, we have no real ties, ” said Helen, helping herself
to toast.
“Shan’t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it ’s
the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon
train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be
no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my
mind.”
“But you won’t do anything rash, Margaret?”
“There ’s nothing rash to do.”
“Who are the Wilcoxes?” said Tibby, a question that
sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt
found to her cost when she tried to answer it. “I don’t
manage the Wilcoxes; I don’t see where they come in. ”
“ No more do I, ” agreed Helen. “ It ’s funny that we
just don’t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel ac-
quaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck.
It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from
far more interesting people in that time. ”
“Interesting people don’t get one houses.”
“ Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall
throw the treacle at you. ”
‘‘Yes” or “No”
i93
“It ’s a better vein than the cosmopolitan,” said
Margaret, getting up. “Now, children, which is it to
be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say-
yes or shall I say no? Tibby love — which? I ’m
specially anxious to pin you both.”
“It all depends on what meaning you attach to the
word ‘possi
“It depends on nothing of the sort. Say ‘yes.’ ”
“Say ‘no.’”
Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. “I think,”
she said, “that our race is degenerating. We cannot
settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we
have to settle a big one?”
“It will be as easy as eating,” returned Helen.
‘ 1 1 was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave
Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young
man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian?
How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin
aiming at something else? It would have killed me.
When he was nearly forty he could change countries
and ideals — and we, at our age, can’t change houses.
It ’s humiliating. ”
“Your father may have been able to change countries,”
said Mrs. Munt with asperity, “and that may or may not
be a good thing. But he could change houses no better
than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget
what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester. ”
“I knew it,” cried Helen. “I told you so. It is the
little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are
nothing when they come. ”
“Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect —
in fact, you were n’t there. But the furniture was
actually in the vans and on the move before the lease
13
194
Howards End
for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train
with baby — who was Margaret then — and the smaller
luggage for London, without so much as knowing where
her new home would be. Getting away from that house
may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all
went through getting you into it.”
Helen, with her mouth full, cried:
“And that ’s the man who beat the Austrians, and the
Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that
were inside himself. And we ’re like him. ”
“Speak for yourself,” said Tibby. “Remember that
I am cosmopolitan, please.”
“Helen may be right.”
“Of course she ’s right,” said Helen.
Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London.
Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst
of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for
feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away
from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her
father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been
troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train
and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had
seen but yesterday. At Southampton she “waved”
to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at
Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their
trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other
way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary
and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that
Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a
spinster — poor, silly, and unattractive — whose mania it
was that every man who approached her fell in love.
How Margaret’s heart had bled for the deluded thing!
How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair ac-
“Yes” or “No”
i95
quiesced! “I may have been deceived by the curate,
my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday
post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter of fact — ”
It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner
of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the
mere pressure of virginity.
Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt
certain that he was not the same as usual; for one thing,
he took offence at everything she said.
“This is awfully kind of you,” she began, “but I ’m
afraid it ’s not going to do. The house has not been
built that suits the Schlegel family. ”
“What! Have you come up determined not to deal?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? In that case let ’s be starting. ’
She lingered to admire the motor, which was new, and
a fairer creature than the vermilion giant that had borne
Aunt Juley to her doom three years before.
“Presumably it’s very beautiful,” she said. “How
do you like it, Crane?”
“ Come, let ’s be starting, ” repeated her host. “ How
on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called
Crane?”
“Why, I know Crane; I ’ve been for a drive with Evie
once. I know that you ’ve got a parlourmaid called
Milton. I know all sorts of things. ”
“Evie!” he echoed in injured tones. “You won’t
see her. She ’s gone out with Cahill. It ’s no fun, I
can tell you, being left so much alone. I ’ve got my
work all day — indeed, a great deal too much of it — but
when I come home in the evening, I tell you, I can’t
stand the house.”
“In my absurd way, I’m lonely too,” Margaret
196
Howards End
replied. “It ’s heart-breaking to leave one ’s old home.
I scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place,
and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says
“You, too, feel lonely?”
“Horribly. Hullo, Parliament ’s back!”
Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously.
The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. “Yes,
they are talking again,” said he. “But you were going
to say ”
“Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it
alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in
the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas —
just imagine it! — rolling through infinity with no one to
sit upon them. ”
“Your sister always likes her little joke.”
“ She says ‘Yes,’ my brother says ‘ No,’ to Ducie Street.
It ’s no fun helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. ”
“You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall
never believe it. ”
Margaret laughed. But she was — quite as unpractical.
She could not concentrate on details. Parliament,
the Thames, the irresponsive chauffeur, would flash into
the field of house-hunting, and all demand some com-
ment or response. It is impossible to see modern life
steadily and see it whole, and she had chosen to see it
whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered
over the mysterious or the private. The Thames might
run inland from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all
passion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin.
They knew their own business, and he knew his.
Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke, but
a stimulus, and banished morbidity. Some twenty
years her senior, he preserved a gift that she supposed
“Yes” or “No”
197
herself to have already lost — not youth’s creative
power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was
so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His com-
plexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned,
the' thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had com-
pared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them,
whether they were turned towards the slums or towards
the stars. Some day — in the millennium — there may
be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it
from those who think themselves superior, and who
possibly are.
“At all events you responded to my telegram
promptly,” he remarked.
“Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it.”
“I’m glad you don’t despise the goods of this world. ”
“Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that.”
“ I am glad, very glad, ” he repeated, suddenly softening
and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him.
“There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual
circles. I am glad you don’t share it. Self-denial is all
very well as a means of strengthening the character.
But I can’t stand those people who run down comforts.
They have usually some axe to grind. Can you? ”
“Comforts are of two kinds,” said Margaret, who was
keeping herself in hand — “ those we can share with others,
like fire, weather, or music; and those we can’t — food,
for instance. It depends.”
“I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I should n’t
like to think that you — ” He bent nearer; the sen-
tence died unfinished. Margaret’s head turned very
stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the
beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour
was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the
1 98
Howards End
stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was
so charged with emotion that people only seemed to
exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane
did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she
might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more — how should one
put it? — more psychological than usual. Always a
good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed
this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities
outside neatness, obedience, and decision.
“I want to go over the whole house,” she announced
when they arrived. “As soon as I get back to Swanage,
which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ’ll talk it over once
more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”
“Right. The dining-room.” And they began their
survey.
The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea
would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed
those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and
refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and
pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial,
Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the
frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots
sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but
those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with
presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like
men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen
to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and
hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall,
where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the
Bible — the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back
from the Boer War — fell into position. Such a room
admitted loot.
“Now the entrance-hall.”
“Yes” or “No”
199
The entrance-hall was paved.
“Here we fellows smoke.”
We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It
was as if a motor-car had spawned. “Oh, jolly!” said
Margaret, sinking into one of them.
“You do like it?” he said, fixing his eyes on her up-
turned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate
note. “ It ’s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable.
Is n’t it?”
“Ye-es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?”
“Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?”
“Does all this furniture come from Howards End?”
“The Howards End furniture has all gone to
Oniton. ”
“Does — However, I’m concerned with the house,
not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room? ”
“Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen
and a half.”
“Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at
the solemnity with which we middle classes approach
the subject of houses?”
They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea man-
aged better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One
could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their
lords discussed life’s realities below, to the accompani-
ment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox’s drawing-room at
Howards End looked thus ? Just as this thought en-
tered Margaret’s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his
wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so
overcame her that she nearly fainted.
But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s
great love scenes.
“Miss Schlegel” — his voice was firm — “I have had
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Howards End
you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a
much more serious matter than a house.”
Margaret almost answered: “I know ”
“ Could you be induced to share my — is it probable — ”
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox!” she interrupted, taking hold of the
piano and averting her eyes. “I see, I see. I will write
to you afterwards if I may.”
He began to stammer. “Miss Schlegel — Margaret —
you don’t understand. ”
“ Oh yes ! Indeed, yes ! ” said Margaret.
“I am asking you to be my wife. ”
So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said,
“I am asking you to be my wife, ” she made herself give
a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it.
An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable.
It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled
the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine
weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no
central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room
happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him
she realised that the central radiance had been love.
“You are n’t offended, Miss Schlegel?”
“How could I be offended? ”
. There was a moment’s pause. He was anxious to
get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much in-
tuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions
that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and
affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught
‘herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle
with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him.
“Good-bye, ” she continued. “You will have a letter
from me — I am going back to Swanage to-morrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes” or “No”
201
“Good-bye, and it ’s you I thank.”
“I may order the motor round, may n’t I ? ”
“That would be most kind.”
“I wish I had written instead. Ought I to have
written?”
“Not at all.”
“There ’s just one question ”
She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered and
they parted.
They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the
interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. Yet
she thrilled with happiness ere she reached her own
house. Others had loved her in the past, if one may
apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but those
others had been “ninnies ” — young men who had nothing
to do, old men who could find nobody better. And
she had often “loved,” too, but only so far as the facts
of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine, to
be dismissed for what they were worth, with a smile.
Never before had her personality been touched. She was
not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of
any standing should take her seriously. As she sat
trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst
beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion
broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the
night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her
attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: “But
I ’ve been through this sort of thing before.” She had
never been through it; the big machinery, as opposed to
the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr.
Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him
in return.
She would come to no decision yet. ‘ ‘ Oh, sir, this is so
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sudden” — that prudish phrase exactly expressed her
when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation.
She must examine more closely her own nature and his ;
she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been
a strange love-scene — the central radiance unacknow-
ledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have
said Ich liebe dick , but perhaps it was not his habit
to open the heart. He might have done it if she had
pressed him — as a matter of duty, perhaps; England
expects every man to open his heart once ; but the effort
would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it,
should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise
against the world. He must never be bothered with
emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was
an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent
to correct him.
Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost;
surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint
of bitterness.
CHAPTER XIX
Margaret Tells Helen
If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps
the wisest course would be to take him to the final section
of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit,
a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after
system of our island would roll together under his feet.
Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild
lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black
and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole.
The valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream,
dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne — the Stour, sliding
out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower of
Christ church. The valley of the Avon — invisible, but
far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring
that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond
that on to Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the Plain
to all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is
Suburbia absent. Bournemouth’s ignoble coast cowers
to the right, heralding the pine-trees that mean, for all
their beauty, red houses, and the Stock Exchange, and
extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous
is the City’s trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall
never touch, and the island will guard the Island’s
203
204
Howards End
purity till the end of time. Seen from the west the
Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as
if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the
foreigner — chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome
of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies
Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth,
a latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble
collision of tides, swirls the sea. How many villages
appear in this view! How many castles! How many
churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships,
railways, and roads! What incredible variety of men
working beneath that lucent sky to what final end ! The
reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the im-
agination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes
geographic and encircles England.
So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke,
and mother to her husband’s baby, was brought up to
these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged
gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than
in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs.
Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her
to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich
Wilhelms Bad, Riigen, where beech- trees hang over the
tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine.
Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be,
water being safer when it moved about.
“And your English lakes — Vindermere, Grasmere —
are they, then, unhealthy?”
“No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are
fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have
tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells.
Look, for instance, at an aquarium.”
“An aquarium! Oh, Meesis Munt, you mean to tell
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Margaret Tells Helen
me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then
Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles ”
“You are not to say ‘stink,’ ” interrupted Helen;
“at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are
being funny while you say it.”
“Then ‘smell.’ And the mud of your Pool down there
— does it not smell, or may I say ‘stink,’ ha, ha?”
“There always has been mud in Poole Harbour,”
said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. “The rivers bring
it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends
upon it. ”
“Yes, that is so,” conceded Frieda; and another in-
ternational incident was closed.
“ ‘Bournemouth is,’ ” resumed their hostess, quoting
a local rhyme to which she was much attached —
“ ‘Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the
most important town of all and biggest of the three.’
Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth,
and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward
a little, and look down again at Swanage.”
“Aunt Juley, would n’t that be Meg’s train?”
A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour,
and now was bearing southwards towards them over
the black and the gold.
“Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won’t be
overtired. ”
“Oh, I do wonder — I do wonder whether she ’s taken
the house.”
“I hope she has n’t been hasty.”
“So do I — oh, so do I.”
“Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?” Frieda
asked.
“ I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing
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Howards End
himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are
beautiful in their modern way, and I can’t think why
he does n’t keep on with it. But it ’s really for Evie
that he went there, and now that Evie’s going to be
married ”
“Ah!”
“You ’ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How
absurdly matrimonial you are!”
“But sister to that Paul?”
“Yes.”
“And to that Charles,” said Mrs. Munt with feeling.
“Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was ! ”
Helen laughed. “ Meg and I have n’t got such tender
hearts. If there ’s a chance of a cheap house, we go
for it.”
“Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece’s train.
You see, it is coming towards us — coming, coming; and,
when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go through the
downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk
over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we
shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?”
Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed
the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser.
Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of
the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle
of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most
important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Mar-
garet’s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted
with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in
the middle distance, and there it had been planned that
Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket,
up to join them.
“You see,” continued Helen to her cousin, “the
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Margaret Tells Helen
Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles.
They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where
my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shrop-
shire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five,
another near Epsom ; and six, Evie will have a house when
she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country —
which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa
makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That
was something like a dear little house! Didn’t you
think so, Aunt Juley?”
“I had too much to do, dear, to look at it,” said Mrs.
Munt, with a gracious dignity. “I had everything to
settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his
place besides. It is n’t likely I should remember much.
I just remember having lunch in your bedroom.”
“Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all
seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-
Pauline movement — you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs.
Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry
Paul.”
“You yet may,” said Frieda despondently.
Helen shook her head. “The Great Wilcox Peril will
never return. If I ’m certain of anything it ’s of that.”
“ One is certain of nothing but the truth of one ’s own
emotions.”
The remark fell damply on the conversation. But
Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking
her the better for making it. It was not an original
remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately,
for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind.
Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the
average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman
does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the
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Howards End
beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the
pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin’s
beside a landscape of Leader’s, strident and ill-considered,
but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened
idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad
preparation for what followed.
“Look!” cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from
generalities over the narrow summit of the down.
“Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart
coming. I see the pony-cart coming.”
They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret
and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving
the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through
the budding lanes, and then began the ascent.
“Have you got the house?” they shouted, long before
she could possibly hear.
Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed
over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles
along the ridge of the down.
“Have you got the house?”
Margaret shook her head.
“Oh, what a nuisance ! So we ’re as we were? ”
“Not exactly.”
She got out, looking tired.
“Some mystery,” said Tibby. “We are to be en-
lightened presently.”
Margaret came close up to her and whispered that
she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox.
Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the
downs so that her brother might lead the pony through.
“It ’s just like a widower,” she remarked. “They ’ve
cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one
of their first wife’s friends.”
Margaret Tells Helen 209
Margaret’s face flashed despair.
“That type — ” She broke off with aery. “Meg,
not anything wrong with you?”
“Wait one minute,” said Margaret, whispering always.
“But you ’ve never conceivably — you ’ve never — ”
She pulled herself together. “ Tibby, hurry up through;
I can’t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say,
Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ’ve
got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards.” And
then, turning her face to her sister’s, she burst into tears.
Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying,
“Oh, really — ” She felt herself touched with a hand
that trembled.
“Don’t,” sobbed Helen, “don’t, don’t, Meg, don’t!”
She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Mar-
garet, trembling herself, led her forward up the road,
till they strayed through another gate on to the down.
“Don’t, don’t do such a thing! I tell you not to —
don’t! I know — don’t!”
“What do you know?”
“Panic and emptiness,” sobbed Helen. “Don’t!”
Then Margaret thought, “Helen is a little selfish. I
have never behaved like this when there has seemed a
chance of her marrying.” She said: “But we would
still see each other very often, and you ”
“It ’s not a thing like that,” sobbed Helen. And she
broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards,
stretching her hands towards the view and crying.
“What ’s happened to you?” called Margaret, follow-
ing through the wind that gathers at sundown on the
northern slopes of hills. “But it ’s stupid!” And
suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense land-
scape was blurred. But Helen turned back.
14
210
Howards End
“Meg ”
“I don’t know what ’s happened to either of us,” said
Margaret, wiping her eyes. “We must both have gone
mad.” Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed
a little.
“Look here, sit down.”
“All right; I ’ll sit down if you ’ll sit down.”
“There. (One kiss.) Now, whatever, whatever is
the matter?”
“ I do mean what I said. Don’t; it would n’t do. ”
“Oh, Helen, stop saying ‘don’t’! It ’s ignorant. It ’s
as if your head was n’t out of the slime. ‘ Don’t’ is
probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast. ”
Helen was silent.
“Well?”
“Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ’ll
have got my head out of the slime. ”
“That ’s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I
arrived at Waterloo — no, I ’ll go back before that,
because I ’m anxious you should know everything from
the first. The ‘first’ was about ten days ago. It was
the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was
defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about
me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary
thing, which men can’t help any more than we can.
You know — at least, I know in my own case — when a
man has said to me, ‘So-and-so’s a pretty girl,’ I am
seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so,
and long to tweak her ear. It ’s a tiresome feeling, but
not an important one, and one easily manages it. But
it was n’t only this in Mr. Wilcox’s case, I gather now. ”
“Then you love him?”
Margaret considered. “It is wonderful knowing
2 II
Margaret Tells Helen
that a real man cares for you,” she said. “The mere
fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ’ve
known and liked him steadily for nearly three years. ”
“But loved him?”
Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to
analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and
unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round
Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this
country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart,
she meditated honestly, and said, “No.”
“But you will?”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “of that I’m pretty sure.
Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me. ”
“And have settled to marry him?”
“I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now.
What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say. ”
Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. “ It is ever since
Paul,” she said finally.
“ But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul? ”
“But he was there, they were all there that morning
when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was
frightened — the man who loved me frightened and all
his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible,
because personal relations are the important thing for
ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and
anger.”
She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her
sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that
were familiar between them.
“That ’s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about
the outer life. Well, we ’ve often argued that. The
real point is that there is the widest gulf between my
love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will
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Howards End
be prose. I ’m not running it down — a very good kind
of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For
instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox’s faults. He ’s afraid of
emotion. He cares too much about success, too little
about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so
isn’t sympathy really. I ’d even say” — she looked at
the shining lagoons — “that, spiritually, he’s not as
honest as I am. Does n’t that satisfy you?”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Helen. “It makes me feel
worse and worse. You must be mad. ”
Margaret made a movement of irritation.
“I don’t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be
all my life — good heavens, no ! There are heaps of things
in me that he does n’t, and shall never, understand. ”
Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the
physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had
fallen that interposes between married couples and the
world. She was to keep her independence more than
do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her for-
tunes rather than her character, and she was no far
wrong in boasting that she understood her future hus-
band. Yet he did alter her character — a little. There
was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and
odours of life, a social pressure that would have her
think conjugally.
“So with him,” she continued. “There are heaps of
things in him — more especially things that he does —
that will always be hidden from me. He has all those
public qualities which you so despise and which enable
all this — ” She waved her hand at the landscape,
which confirmed anything. “ If Wilcoxes had n’t worked
and died in England for thousands of years, you and I
could n’t sit here without having our throats cut. There
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Margaret Tells Helen
would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people
about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No — perhaps
not even that. Without their spirit life might never
have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I
refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who
guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me ’ ’
“And tome, and to all women. So one kissed Paul.”
“That’s brutal,” said Margaret. “Mine is an ab-
solutely different case. I ’ve thought things out. ”
“It makes no difference thinking things out. They
come to the same. ”
“Rubbish!”
There was a long silence, during which the tide re-
turned into Poole Harbour. “One would lose some-
thing,” murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The
water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and
the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its im-
mense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees.
Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour
against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over
the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to
triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throb-
bing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the
mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with con-
trary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas.
What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexi-
ties, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she
belong to those who have moulded her and made her
feared by other lands, or to those who have added
nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen
the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea,
sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world’s fleet
accompanying her towards eternity?
CHAPTER XX
An Evening on the Parade
Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that
takes place in the world’s waters, when Love, who seems
so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern
beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact
deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is
really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new
generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who
holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love
cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend an-
other’s infinity; he is conscious only of his own — flying
sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet
plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time.
He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and
be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be
handed with admiration round the assembly of the
gods. “ Men did produce this, ” they will say, and, say-
ing, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile —
what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Pro-
perty and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family
Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and
refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic,
gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are
214
215
An Evening on the Parade
aroused — cold brood — and creep out of their holes.
They do what they can; they tidy up Property and
Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-
guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers
creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man
and woman together in Matrimony.
Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not
irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady
nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the
grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive
about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant
note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must
now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage
romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An
acquaintance had become a lover, might become a hus-
band, but would retain all that she had noted in the
acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation
rather than reveal a new one.
In this spirit she promised to marry him.
He was in Swanage on the morrow, bearing the
engagement ring. They greeted one another with a
hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry
dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the
principal hotel ; he was one of those men who know the
principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked
Margaret if she would n’t care for a turn on the Parade.
She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it
would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her
hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the
article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was
different ; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one
thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger.
For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:
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Howards End
“ Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It
can’t be ten days ago.”
“Yes,” he said, laughing. “And you and your sister
were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah
well!”
“I little thought then, certainly. Did you?”
“I don’t know about that; I should n’t like to say. ”
“Why, was it earlier?” she cried. “Did you think
of me this way earlier ! How extraordinarily interesting,
Henry! Tell me.”
But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he
could not have told, for his mental states became ob-
scure as soon as he had passed through them. He mis-
liked the very word “interesting,” connoting it with
wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts
were enough for him.
“ I did n’t think of it, ” she pursued. “ No ; when you
spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically
the first. It was all so different from what it ’s supposed
to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is — how
shall I put it? — a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet;
it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really
is a proposal ”
“By the way ”
“ — a suggestion, a seed,” she concluded; and the
thought flew away into darkness.
“I was thinking, if you did n’t mind, that we ought to
spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so
much to settle.”
“I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did
you get on with Tibby ? ”
“With your brother?”
“Yes, during cigarettes.”
217
An Evening on the Parade
“Oh, very well.”
“I am so glad,” she answered, a little surprised.
“What did you talk about? Me, presumably.”
“About Greece too.”
“Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby ’s only
a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a
little. Well done.”
“I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm
near Calamata. ”
“What a delightful thing to have shares in ! Can’t we
go there for our honeymoon?”
“What to do?”
“To eat the currants. And isn’t there marvellous
scenery?”
“ Moderately, but it ’s not the kind of place one could
possibly go to with a lady.”
“Why not?”
“No hotels.”
“Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that
Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines,
with our luggage on our backs?”
“I wasn’t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will
never do such a thing again. ”
She said more gravely: “You have n’t found time for
a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?”
“No.”
“ Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should
be friends.”
“Your sister and I have always hit it off,” he said
negligently. “But we ’re drifting away from our busi-
ness. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that
Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill.”
“Dolly’s uncle. ”
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Howards End
“Exactly. The girl’s madly in love with him. A
very good sort of fellow, but he demands — and rightly —
a suitable provision with her. And in the second place,
you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before
leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter.
You see, he has an increasing family and increasing
expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just
now, though capable of development.”
“Poor fellow!” murmured Margaret, looking out to
sea, and not understanding.
“Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will
have Howards End; but am I anxious, in my own
happiness, not to be unjust to others.”
“Of course not,” she began, and then gave a little
cry. “You mean money. How stupid I am! Of
course not!”
Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. “Yes.
Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined
to be just to all — just to you, just to them. I am
determined that my children shall have no case against
me.”
“Be generous to them,” she said sharply. “Bother
justice!”
“I am determined — and have already written to
Charles to that effect ”
“But how much have you got?”
“What?”
“How much have you a year? I ’ve six hundred. ”
“My income?”
“Yes. We must begin with how much you have,
before we can settle how much you can give Charles.
Justice, and even generosity, depend on that.”
“I must say you ’re a downright young woman,” he
An Evening on the Parade 219
observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. “What
a question to spring on a fellow!”
“Don’t you know your income? Or don’t you want
to tell it me?”
H J >>
“That ’s all right” — now she patted him — “don’t tell
me. I don’t want to know. I can do the sum just as
well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts.
How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to
Charles, how many to Paul?”
“ The fact is, my dear, I had n’t any intention of
bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you
know that — well, that something must be done for the
others, and you ’ve understood me perfectly, so let’ s
pass on to the next point.”
“Yes, we’ve settled that,” said Margaret, undis-
turbed by his strategic blunderings. “Go ahead; give
away all you can, bearing in mind that I ’ve a clear six
hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money
about one.”
“We ’ve none too much, I assure you; you ’re marry-
ing a poor man. ”
“ Helen would n’t agree with me here, ” she continued.
“Helen daren’t slang the rich, being rich herself, but
she would like to. There ’s an odd notion, that I
have n’t yet got hold of, running about at the back of
her brain, that poverty is somehow ‘real.’ She dislikes
all organisation, and probably confuses wealth with
the technique cf wealth. Sovereigns in a stocking
would n’t bother her; cheques do. Helen is too relent-
less. One can’t deal in her high-handed manner with
the world.”
“There ’s this other point, and then I must go back to
220
Howards End
my hotel and write some letters. What ’s to be done
now about the house in Ducie Street?”
“Keep it on — at least, it depends. When do you
want to marry me?”
She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths,
who were also taking the evening air, overheard her.
“Getting a bit hot, eh?” said one. Mr. Wilcox turned
on them, and said sharply, “I say!” There was silence.
“Take care I don’t report you to the police.” They
moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their
time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated
by peals of ungovernable laughter.
Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into
it, he said : “ Evie will probably be married in September.
We could scarcely think of anything before then.”
“The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not
supposed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer.”
“How about September for us too?” he asked, rather
dryly.
“Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in
September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and
Tibby into it? That ’s rather an idea. They are so
unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by
judicious management. Look here — yes. We ’ll do
that. And we ourselves could live at Howards End or
Shropshire. ”
He blew out his cheeks. “Heavens! how you women
do fly round! My head ’s in a whirl. Point by point,
Margaret. Howards End ’s impossible. I let it to
Hamar Bryce on a three years’ agreement last March.
Don’t you remember? Oniton. Well, that is much,
much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be
able to be down there entertaining a certain amount,
221
An Evening on the Parade
but we must have a house within easy reach of Town.
Only Ducie Street has huge drawbacks. There ’s a
mews behind. ”
Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first
she had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When
she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not
consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox
manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision
that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in
Ducie Street he remembered the mews; when he tried to
let he forgot it; and if any one had remarked that the
mews must be either there or not, he would have felt
annoyed, and afterwards have found some opportunity
of stigmatising the speaker as academic. So does my
grocer stigmatise me when I complain of the quality
of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they
are the best sultanas, and how can I expect the best
sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the
business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to
it, considering all that the business mind has done for
England.
“Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious
nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable
little den. The house opposite has been taken by
operatic people. Ducie Street ’s going down, it ’s my
private opinion. ”
“How sad! It’s only a few years since they built
those pretty houses. ”
“Shows things are moving. Good for trade.”
“I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epi-
tome of us at our worst — eternal formlessness; all the
qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away —
streaming, streaming for ever. That ’s why I dread it so.
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Howards End
I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea ”
“High tide, yes.”
“Hoy toid” — from the promenading youths.
“And these are the men to whom we give the vote,”
observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were
also the men to whom he gave work as clerks — work
that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men.
“However, they have their own lives and interests.
Let ’s get on.”
He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back
to The Bays. The business was over. His hotel was
in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her
his letters would be late for the post. She implored
him not to come, but he was obdurate.
“A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in
alone!”
“But I always do go about alone. Considering I ’ve
walked over the Apennines, it ’s common sense. You
will make me so angry. I don’t the least take it as a
compliment. ”
He laughed, and lit a cigar. “It is n’t meant as a
compliment, my dear. I just won’t have you going
about in the dark. Such people about too ! It ’s
dangerous. ”
“Can’t I look after myself? I do wish ”
“Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.”
A younger woman might have resented his masterly
ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of life to make a
fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he was
a fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might
tread, but whom the snows made nightly virginal.
Disdaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods,
garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much
An Evening on the Parade 223
as she had misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for
weakness. He supposed her “as clever as they make
’em, ” but no more, not realising that she was penetrating
to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she
found there.
And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the
whole of life, their happiness had been assured.
They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the
road after it were well lighted, but it was darker in Aunt
Juley’s garden. As they were going up by the side-paths,
through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in
front, said “Margaret” rather huskily, turned, dropped
his cigar, and took her in his arms.
She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered
herself at once, and kissed with genuine love the lips
that were pressed against her own. It was their first
kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door
and rang the bell for her but disappeared into the night
before the maid answered it. On looking back, the
incident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing
in their previous conversation had heralded it, and,
worse still, no tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot
lead up to passion he can at all events lead down from it,
and she had hoped, after her complaisance, for some
interchange of gentle words. But he had hurried away
as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of
Helen and Paul.
CHAPTER XXI
An Interlude
Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved
the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head, though
bloody, was unsubdued, and her chirrupings began to
mingle with his retreating thunder.
“You ’ve waked the baby. I knew you would.
(Rum-ti-foo, Rackety- tackety-Tompkin !) I ’m not re-
sponsible for what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody
else or anything, so there !”
“Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my
sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the
motor day after day?”
“Charles, that reminds me of some poem. ”
“Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very
different music presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly
got us on toast.”
“I could simply scratch that woman’s eyes out, and
to say it ’s my fault is most unfair. ”
“It ’s your fault, and five months ago you admitted
it.”
“I did n’t.”
“You did.”
“Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!” exclaimed
Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child.
224
An Interlude
225
“ It *s all very well to turn the conversation, but father
would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie
was there to make him comfortable. But you must
needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill’s too old.”
“Of course, if you’re going to be rude to Uncle
Percy ”
“Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards
End, and, thanks to you, she ’s got it. ”
“ I call the way you twist things round and make them
hang together most unfair. You couldn’t have been
nastier if you ’d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?”
“We ’re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it.
I shall answer the pater ’s letter civilly. He ’s evidently
anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to
forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they ’re on
their best behaviour — Dolly, are you listening? — we ’ll
behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs
or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him,
or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend
to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother’s
place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say
when the news reaches him.”
The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles’s
garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deck-
chairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from
its garage across the lawn. A short-f rocked edition of
Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator
edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly.
Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode,
so that they may inherit the earth.
CHAPTER XXII
Two Letters
Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on
the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able
to help him to the building of/ the rainbow bridge that
should connect the prose in us with the passion) With-
out it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half
beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into
a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest
curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire.
Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of
these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear,
and he and his friends shall find easy-going.
It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox’s soul.
From boyhood he had neglected them. “I am not a
fellow who bothers about my own inside.” Outwardly
he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had
reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by
an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband,
or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that
bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when
held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The
words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to
other respectable men were the words that had once
226
Two Letters
227
kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into
a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as
the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour,
but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Ama-
bat , amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret
hoped to help him.
It did not seem so difficult She need trouble him
with no gift of her own. She would only point out the
salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul
of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of
her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion,
and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen
at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only
connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the
isolation that is life to either, will die.
Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not
take the form of a good “talking.” By quiet indica-
tions the bridge would be built and span their lives with
beauty.
But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry
for which she was never prepared, however much she
reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did
not notice things, and there was no more to be said.
He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile,
or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations;
he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in
the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones,
the collisions, the illimitable views. Once — on another
occasion — she scolded him about it. He was puzzled,
but replied with a laugh: “My motto is Concentrate.
I ’ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that
sort of thing. ” “It is n’t frittering away the strength, ”
she protested. “It’s enlarging the space in which
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Howards End
you may be strong.” He answered: “You ’re a clever
little woman, but my motto ’s Concentrate.” And this
morning he concentrated with a vengeance.
They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the
daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path
was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen,
who had been ominously quiet since the affair was
settled. “Here we all are!” she cried, and took him
by one hand, retaining her sister’s in the other.
“Here we are. Good-morning, Helen.”
Helen replied, “Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox.”
“ Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer,
cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad
moustache, but the back of his head was young.”
“I have had a letter too. Not a nice one — I want to
talk it over with you”; for Leonard Bast was nothing
to him now that she had given him her word; the
triangle of sex was broken for ever.
“Thanks to your hint, he’s clearing out of the
Porphyrion. ”
“Not a bad business that Porphyrion,” he said ab-
sently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket.
“Not a bad — ” she exclaimed, dropping his hand.
“Surely, on Chelsea Embankment ”
“Here’s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt.
Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke;
we manage to grow flowers in England, don’t we?”
“Not a bad business?”
“No. My letter’s about Howards End. Bryce has
been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it. I am far
from sure that I shall give him permission. There was
no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting
is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I
Two Letters
229
consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morn-
ing, Schlegel. Don’t you think that ’s better than
subletting?”
Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered
her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house.
Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must
have yearned all through the centuries for just such a
watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin.
The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth
steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up
against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists.
“When there is a sublet I find that damage ”
“Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don’t
feel easy — might I just bother you, Henry?”
Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked
her a little sharply what she wanted.
“ You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was
a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He
writes this morning that he ’s taken our advice, and now
you say it ’s not a bad concern.”
“A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad,
without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool,
and I ’ve no pity for him. ”
“He has not done that. He ’s going into a bank in
Camden Town, he says. The salary •’s much lower, but
he hopes to manage — a branch of Dempster’s Bank.
Is that all right?”
“ Dempster ! My goodness me, yes. ”
“More right than the Porphyrion?”
“Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses — safer.”
“ Very many thanks. I ’m sorry — if you sublet ? ”
“If he sublets, I shan’t have the same control. In
theory there should be no more damage done at Howards
230
Howards End
End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for
which no money can compensate. For instance, I
should n’t want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs —
Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time.
It ’s pretty in its way. We ’ll motor down and have
lunch with Charles.”
“I should enjoy that,” said Margaret bravely.
“What about next Wednesday?”
“Wednesday? No, I couldn’t well do that. Aunt
Juley expects us to stop here another week at least. ”
“But you can give that up now. ”
“Er — no,” said Margaret, after a moment’s thought.
“ Oh, that ’ll be all right. I ’ll speak to her. ”
“This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on
it year after year. She turns the house upside down for
us; she invites our special friends — she scarcely knows
Frieda, and we can’t leave her on her hands. I missed
one day, and she would be so hurt if I did n’t stay the
full ten.”
“But I ’ll say a word to her. Don’t you bother.”
“Henry, I won’t go. Don’t bully me.”
“You want to see the house, though?”
“Very much — I ’ve heard so much about it, one way
or the other. Are n’t there pigs’ teeth in the wych-elm? ”
“Pigs' teeth?"
“And you chew the bark for toothache.”
“ What a rum notion ! Of course not ! ”
“Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree.
There are still a great number of sacred trees in Eng-
land, it seems. ”
But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice
could be heard in the distance ; to be intercepted himself
by Helen.
Two Letters
231
“Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion — ” she began,
and went scarlet all over her face.
“It ’s all right,” called Margaret, catching them up.
“Dempster’s Bank’s better.”
“But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and
would smash before Christmas.”
“ Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had
to take rotten policies. Lately it came in — safe as houses
now.”
“ In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it. ”
“No, the fellow need n’t. ”
“ — and needn’t have started life elsewhere at a
greatly reduced salary.”
“He only says ‘reduced,’ ” corrected Margaret, seeing
trouble ahead.
“With a man so poor, every reduction must be great.
I consider it a deplorable misfortune. ”
Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt,
was going steadily on, but the last remark made him
say: “What? What’s that? Do you mean that I ’m
responsible?”
“You ’re ridiculous, Helen.”
“You seem to think — ” He looked at his watch.
“Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You
seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a
delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed
stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was
bound to say, ‘ I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff
Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the
only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am
trying.’ My dear Helen ”
“ Is that your point? A man who had little money has
less — that ’s mine. ”
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Howards End
“ I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day’s
work. It ’s part of the battle of life. ”
“A man who had little money,” she repeated, “has
less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I do not
consider ‘the battle of life’ a happy expression.”
“ Oh come, come ! ” he protested pleasantly. “You ’re
not to blame. No one ’s to blame. ”
“Is no one to blame for anything?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but you ’re taking it far too
seriously. Who is this fellow?”
“We have told you about the fellow twice already,”
said Helen. “You have even met the fellow. He is very
poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is
capable of better things. We — we, the upper classes —
thought we would help him from the height of our
superior knowledge — and here’s the result!”
He raised his finger. “Now, a word of advice.”
“I require no more advice.”
“A word of advice. Don’t take up that sentimental
attitude over the poor. See that she does n’t, Margaret.
The poor are poor, and one ’s sorry for them, but there
it is. As civilisation moves forward, the 'shoe is bound
to pinch in places, and it ’s absurd to pretend that any
one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor
my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the
directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk’s
loss of salary. It ’s just the shoe pinching — no one can
help it; and it might easily have been worse. ”
Helen quivered with indignation.
“By all means subscribe to charities — subscribe to
them largely — but don’t get carried away by absurd
schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind
the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no
Two Letters
233
Social Question — except for a few journalists who try
to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich
and poor, as there always have been and always will be.
Point me out a time when men have been equal ”
“I did n’t say ”
“Point me out a time when desire for equality has
made them happier. No, no. You can’t. There
always have been rich and poor. I ’m no fatalist.
Heaven forbid ! But our civilisation is moulded by great
impersonal forces” (his voice grew complacent; it
always did when he eliminated the personal), “and
there always will be rich and poor. You can’t deny it”
(and now it was a respectful voice) — “and you can’t
deny that, in spite of all, the tendency of civilisation
has on the whole been upward. ”
“Owing to God, I suppose,” flashed Helen.
He stared at her.
. “You grab the dollars. God does the rest.”
It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to
talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal
to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs.
Munt. He thought, “ She rather reminds me of Dolly. ”
Helen looked out at the sea.
“Don’t ever discuss political economy with Henry,”
advised her sister. “ It ’ll only end in a cry. ”
“But he must be one of those men who have reconciled
science with religion,” said Helen slowly. “I don’t
like those men. They are scientific themselves, and
talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the sala-
ries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all
who may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that
somehow good — it is always that sloppy ‘somehow’ —
will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the
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Howards End
Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr.
Basts of to-day are in pain. ”
“He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in
theory!”
“But oh, Meg, what a theory!”
“Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?”
“Because I ’m an old maid,” said Helen, biting her
lip. “I can’t think why I go on like this myself. ” She
shook off her sister’s hand and went into the house.
Margaret, distressed at the day’s beginning, followed the
Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that
Helen’s nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast
business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might
at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry
would notice. Henry must be removed.
“Margaret!” her aunt called. “Magsy! It isn’t
true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go
away early next week?”
“Not ‘want,’ ” was Margaret’s prompt reply; “but
there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the
Charles’s.”
“But going away without taking the Weymouth trip,
or even the Lulworth?” said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer.
“Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, “ Good ! I did the break-
ing of the ice. ”
A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand
on either shoulder, and looked deeply into the black,
bright eyes. What was behind their competent stare?
She knew, but was not disquieted.
CHAPTER XXIII
Margaret Sees the Estate
Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and
the evening before she left Swanage she gave her sister
a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for disap-
proving of the engagement, but for throwing over her
disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally
frank. “Yes,” she said, with the air of one looking
inwards, “there is a mystery. I can’t help it. It’s
not my fault. It’s the way life has been made.”
Helen in those days was over-interested in the subcon-
scious self. She exaggerated the Punch and Judy
aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom
an invisible showman twitches into love and war. Mar-
garet pointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, would
eliminate the personal. Helen was silent for a minute,
and then burst into a queer speech, which cleared the
air. “Go on and marry him. I think you ’re splendid;
and if anyone can pull it off, you will.” Margaret
denied that there was anything to “pull off,” but she
continued: “Yes, there is, and I was n’t up to it with
Paul. I can do only what ’s easy. I can only entice
and be enticed. I can’t, and won’t, attempt difficult
relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who’s
235
236
Howards End
strong enough to boss me or whom I ’m strong enough to
boss. So I shan’t ever marry, for there are n’t such men.
And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I shall
certainly run away from him before you can say ‘Jack
Robinson.’ There! Because I ’m uneducated. But
you, you ’re different; you ’re a heroine.”
“Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor
Henry as all that?”
“You mean to keep proportion, and that’s heroic,
it ’s Greek, and I don’t see why it should n’t succeed with
you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don’t
ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward
I ’m going my own way. I mean to be thorough, be-
cause thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your
husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no con-
cessions to Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he
must lump me. I mean to love you more than ever.
Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real,
because it is purely spiritual. There’s no veil of mys-
tery over us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as
one touches the body. The popular view is, as usual,
exactly the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible
things — money, husbands, house-hunting. But Heaven
will work of itself.”
Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection,
and answered, “Perhaps.” All vistas close in the un-
seen— no one doubts it — but Helen closed them rather
too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one
was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps
Margaret grew too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry
was weaning her from them, but she felt that there was
something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily
shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that
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Margaret Sees the Estate
this life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that
it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit the
truth. “Yes, I see, dear; it ’s about half-way between, ”
Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth,
being alive, was not half-way between anything. It was
only to be found by continuous excursions into either
realm, and though proportion is the final secret, to
espouse it at the outset is to insure sterility.
Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have
talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to
do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might
abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she
always be civil to him in company? “I definitely dislike
him, but I’ll do what I can,” promised Helen. “Do
what you can with my friends in return.”
This conversation made Margaret easier. Their
inner life was so safe that they could bargain over
externals in a way that would have been incredible to
Aunt Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There
are moments when the inner life actually “pays,” when
years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive,
are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still
rare in the West; that they come at all promises a
fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand
her sister, was assured against estrangement, and re-
turned to London with a more peaceful mind.
The following morning, at eleven o’clock, she pre-
sented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West
African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there,
for Henry had implied his business rather than described
it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one asso-
ciates with Africa itself had hitherto brooded over the
main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the
Howards End
238
office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary
surface scum of ledgers and polished counters and brass
bars that began and stopped for no possible reason, of
electric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of little
rabbit-hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits.
And even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she
found only the ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and
though the map over the fireplace did depict a helping
of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another
map hung opposite, on which the whole continent ap-
peared, looking like a whale marked out for a blubber,
and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry’s voice
came through it, dictating a ‘ ‘ strong ’ ’ letter. She might
have been at the Porphyrion, or Dempster’s Bank,
or her own wine-merchant’s. Everything seems just
alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the
Imperial side of the company rather than its West
African, and Imperialism always had been one of her
difficulties.
“One minute!” called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her
name. He touched a bell, the effect of which was to
produce Charles.
Charles had written his father an adequate letter —
more adequate than Evie’s, through which a girlish
indignation throbbed. And he greeted his future step-
mother with propriety.
“ I hope that my wife — how do you do? — will give you
a decent lunch,” was his opening. “I left instructions,
but we live in a rough-and-ready way. She expects you
back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards
End. I wonder what you ’ll think of the place. I
would n’t touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down !
It ’s a measly little place. ”
Margaret Sees the Estate 239
“I shall enjoy seeing it,” said Margaret, feeling, tor
the first time, shy.
“You ’ll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad
last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman
to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful
mess. It ’s unbelievable. He was n’t in the house a
month.”
“I ’ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,”
called Henry from the inner chamber.
“Why did he go so suddenly?”
“Invalid type; could n’t sleep.”
“Poor fellow!”
“Poor fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Wilcox, joining them.
“He had the impudence to put up notice-boards with-
out as much as saying with your leave or by your leave.
Charles flung them down. ”
“Yes, I flung them down,” said Charles modestly.
“I ’ve sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp
one, too. He, and he in person, is responsible for the
upkeep of that house for the next three years. ”
“The keys are at the farm; we wouldn’t have the
keys.”
“Quite right.”
“Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, for-
tunately.
“What ’s Mr. Bryce like?” asked Margaret.
But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who
had no right to sublet; to have defined him further was a
waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted pro-
fusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter
came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature.
“ Now we ’ll be off, ” said he.
A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret,
240
Howards End
awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and
in a moment the offices of the Imperial and West African
Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an im-
pressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being
grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps
Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did
not a gentleman once motor so quickly through West-
moreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can
be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate
structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hert-
fordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis
of river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton
were with us again to write a new edition of his incom-
parable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertford-
shire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated
by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and
averted from their fate towards the Northern flats, their
leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea.
No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance;
but they would be real nymphs.
The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had
hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter
traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret,
a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children
on the brain.
“They’re all right,” said Mr. Wilcox. “They’ll
learn — like the swallows and the telegraph-wires.”
“Yes, but, while they ’re learning ”
“The motor’s come to stay,” he answered. “One
must get about. There ’s a pretty church — oh, you
are n’t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries
you — right outward at the scenery.”
She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged
Margaret Sees the Estate 241
like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had
arrived.
Charles’s house on the left; on the right the swelling
forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a
neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the
stream of residences that was thickening up towards
Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and
beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay
buried. She hated war and liked soldiers — it was one of
her amiable inconsistencies.
But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing
at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops
of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait
in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready
lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream.
Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly
described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law
gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting
all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh
at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret, too, and Margaret,
roused from a grave meditation, was pleased, and
chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised, and
eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children
came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off
better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into
fits of laughter by talking sense to him. “Kiss
them now, and come away,” said Mr. Wilcox. She
came, but refused to kiss them ; it was such hard luck
on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered
Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was
obdurate.
By this time it was raining steadily. The car came
round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of
16
242
Howards End
space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane
opened the door of the car.
“What ’s happened?” asked Margaret.
“What do you suppose?” said Henry.
A little porch was close up against her face.
“Are we there already?”
“We are.”
“ Well, I never ! In years ago it seemed so far away. ”
Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out,
and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She
was about to open it, when Henry said: “That ’s no
good; it ’s locked. Who ’s got the key?”
As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the
farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had
left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from
the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he
said rather crossly: “Margaret, you wait in the dry.
I ’ll go down for the key. It is n’t a hundred yards. ”
“May n’t I come too?”
“No; I shall be back before I ’m gone. ”
Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain
had risen. For the second time that day she saw the
appearance of the earth.
There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once
described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that
would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision
now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-
hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies
stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions
over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She
could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the
celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered
the porch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil;
243
Margaret Sees the Estate
she had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked
so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of
the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr.
Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already
decided that the place was beautiful.
“Naughty cow! Go away!” cried Margaret to the
cow, but without indignation.
Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky,
and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house-
agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles
had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles
in another world — where one did have interviews.
How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles
dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and
gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and —
no connection at all between them! Margaret smiled.
Would that her own fancies were as clear-cut! Would
that she could deal as high-handedly with the world!
Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door.
It opened. The house was not locked up at all.
She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He
felt strongly about property, and might prefer to show
her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her
to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip.
So she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the
door behind.
Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on
the hall- windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed
boards. The civilisation of luggage had been here for a
month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing-
room— right and left — were guessed only by their wall-
papers. They were just rooms where one could shelter
from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great
244
Howards End
beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly,
but the drawing-room’s was match-boarded — because the
facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Drawing-
room, dining-room, and hall — how petty the names
sounded ! Here were simply three rooms where children
could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and
they were beautiful.
Then she opened one of the doors opposite — there were
two — and exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It was
the servants’ part, though she scarcely realised that:
just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The
garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and
plums. Farther on were hints of the meadow and a
black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful.
Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the
sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her.
She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten
times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand
square miles are not practically the same as heaven.
The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was
laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howards
End to its kitchen and heard the rain run this way
and that where the watershed of the roof divided it.
Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinising half Wessex
from the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying : “You
will have to lose something.” She was not so sure.
For instance she would double her kingdom by opening
the door that concealed the stairs.
Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires;
of her father; of the two supreme nations, streams of
whose life warmed her blood, but, mingling, had cooled
her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did
so the house reverberated.
Margaret Sees the Estate 245
“Is that you, Henry?” she called.
There was no answer, but the house reverberated again.
“Henry, have you got in?”
But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at
first, then loudly, martially. It dominated the rain.
It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished,
that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the
stairs. A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A
woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect,
with face impassive, with lips that parted and said
dryly :
“ Oh ! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox. ”
Margaret stammered : “I — Mrs. Wilcox — I?”
“In fancy, of course — in fancy. You had her way
of walking. Good-day.” And the old woman passed
out into the rain.
CHAPTER XXIV
Howards End Idealised
“It gave her quite a turn,” said Mr. Wilcox, when re-
tailing the incident to Dolly at tea-time. “ None of you
girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from
me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery — she fright-
ened you, did n’t she, Margaret? There you stood
clutching a bunch of weeds. She might have said some-
thing, instead of coming down the stairs with that
alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough
to make the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for
being a character; some old maids do.” He lit a
cigarette. “It is their last resource. Heaven knows
what she was doing in the place; but that’s Bryce’s
business, not mine.”
“ I was n’t as foolish as you suggest, ” said Margaret.
“She only startled me, for the house had been silent so
long.”
“Did you take her for a spook?” asked Dolly, for
whom “spooks’” and “going to church” summarised
the unseen.
“Not exactly.”
“She really did frighten you,” said Henry, who was
far from discouraging timidity in females. “Poor
246
Howards End Idealised
247
Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated classes
are so stupid.”
“ Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?” Margaret asked,
and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of
Dolly’s drawing-room.
“She ’s just one of the crew at the farm. People like
that always assume things. She assumed you ’d know
who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the
front lobby, and assumed that you ’d seen them as you
came in, that you ’d lock up the house when you ’d done,
and would bring them on down to her. And there was
her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack
of education makes people very casual. Hilton was
full of women like Miss Avery once.”
“I should n’t have disliked it, perhaps.”
“Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present,” said
Dolly.
Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly,
Margaret was destined to learn a good deal.
“But Charles said I must try not to mind, because
she had known his grandmother.”
“As usual, you ’ve got the story wrong, my good
Dorothea.”
“I meant great-grandmother — the one who left Mrs.
Wilcox the house. Were n’t both of them and Miss
Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?”
Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His
attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude
to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her
by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic
past. Dolly was — for the following reason.
“Then hadn’t Mrs. Wilcox a brother — or was it an
uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss
248
Howards End
Avery, she said * No.’ Just imagine, if she ’d said ‘Yes/
she would have been Charles’s aunt. (Oh, I say, that ’s
rather good ! ‘ Charlie’s Aunt’ ! I must chaff him about
that this evening.) And the man went out and was
killed. Yes, I ’m certain I ’ve got it right now. Tom
Howard — he was the last of them. ”
“I believe so,” said Mr. Wilcox negligently.
“I say! Howards End — Howards Ended!” cried
Dolly. “I’m rather on the spot this evening, eh? ”
“I wish you ’d ask whether Crane’s ended.”
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?”
“Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go. —
Dolly ’s a good little woman, ” he continued, “but a little
of her goes a long way. I could n’t live near her if you
paid me.”
Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front
to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the
possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial
spirit, and were always making for some spot where the
white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of
course, Howards End was impossible, so long as the
younger couple were established in Hilton. His ob-
jections to the house were plain as daylight now.
Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the
garage, where their car had been trickling muddy water
over Charles’s. The downpour had surely penetrated
the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless civili-
sation. “Curious mounds,” said Henry, “but in with
you now; another time.” He had to be up in London
by seven — if possible, by six- thirty. Once more she
lost the sense of space; once more trees, houses, people,
animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness,
and she was at Wickham Place.
Howards End Idealised
249
Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which
had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time.
She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the
hurrying men who know so much and connect so little.
She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of
all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End,
she attempted to realise England. She failed — visions
do not come when we try, though they may come
through trying. But an unexpected love of the island
awoke in her, connecting on this side with the joys of the
flesh, on that with the inconceivable. Helen and her
father had known this love, poor Leonard Bast was
groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret
till this afternoon. It had certainly come through the
house and old Miss Avery. Through them : the notion
of “through” persisted; her mind trembled towards a
conclusion which only the unwise have put into words.
Then, veering back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy
bricks, flowering plum-trees, and all the tangible joys
of spring.
Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her
over his property, and had explained to her the use and
dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the
history of the little estate. “It is so unlucky,” ran the
monologue, “that money was n’t put into it about fifty
years ago. Then it had four — five — times the land —
thirty acres at least. One could have made something
out of it then — a small park, or at all events shrubberies,
and rebuilt the house farther away from the road.
What ’s the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing
but the meadow left, and even that was heavily mort-
gaged when I first had to do with things— yes, and the
house too. Oh, it was no joke. ’ ’ She saw two women as
250
Howards End
he spoke, one old, the other young, watching their
inheritance melt away. She saw them greet him as a
deliverer. “Mismanagement did it — besides, the days
for small farms are over. It does n’t pay — except with
intensive cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land
— ah! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that
nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see
(they were standing at an upper window, the only one
which faced west) belongs to the people at the Park —
they made their pile over copper — good chaps. Avery’s
Farm, Sishe’s — what they call the Common, where you
see that ruined oak — one after the other fell in, and so
did this, as near as is no matter. ” But Henry had saved
it; without fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved
it, and she loved him for the deed. “When I had more
control I did what I could — sold off the two and a half
animals, and the mangy pony, and the . superannuated
tools ; pulled down the outhouses ; drained ; thinned out I
don’t know how many guelder-roses and elder- trees;
and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a
hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was.
Garage and so on came later. But one could still tell
it ’s been an old farm. And yet it is n’t the place that
would fetch one of your artistic crew. ” No, it was n’t;
and if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew
would still less; it was English, and the wych-elm that
she saw from the window was an English tree. No
report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was
neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these
r61es do the English excel. It was a comrade bending
over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but
in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a
dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end
Howards End Idealised
251
evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the
air. It was a comrade. House and tree transcended
any similes of sex. Margaret thought of them now, and
was to think of them through many a windy night and
London day, but to compare either to man, to woman,
always dwarfed the vision. Yet they kept within
limits of the human. Their message was not of eternity,
but of hope on this side of the grave. As she stood in the
one, gazing at the other, truer relationship had gleamed.
Another touch, and the account of her day is finished.
They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr.-
Wilcox’s surprise she was right. Teeth, pigs’ teeth, ;
could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree — just
the white tips of them showing. “Extraordinary!”
he cried. “Who told you?”
“ I heard of it one winter in London, ” was her answer,
for she, too, avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name.
CHAPTER XXV
On the Way to Shropshire
Evie heard of her father’s engagement when she was in
for a tennis tournament, and her play went simply to
pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed
natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same
was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it
was all her fault. “But I never dreamt of such a thing,”
she grumbled. “ Dad took me to call now and then, and
made me ask her to Simpson’s. Well, I ’m altogether
off dad.” It was also an insult to their mother’s mem-
ory; there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of re-
turning Mrs. Wilcox’s lace and jewellery “as a protest.”
Against what it would protest she was not clear; but
being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed
to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace.
Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy should
pretend to break off their engagement, and then per-
haps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel, and
break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this
point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie
settled to marry as soon as possible; it was no good
hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing her. The date
of her wedding was consequently put forward from
252
On the Way to Shropshire 253
September to August, and in the intoxication of presents
she recovered much of her good-humour.
Margaret found that she was expected to figure at
this function, and to figure largely; it would be such an
opportunity, said Henry, for her to get to know his set.
Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills and
the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington
Wilcox, had fortunately got back from her tour round
the world. Henry she loved, but his set promised to be
another matter. He had not the knack of surrounding
himself with nice people — indeed, for a man of ability
and virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate;
he had no guiding principle beyond a certain preference
for mediocrity ; he was content to settle one of the great-
est things in life haphazard, and so, while his invest-
ments went right, his friends generally went wrong.
She would be told, “Oh, So-and-so’s a good sort — a
thundering good sort,” and find, on meeting him, that
he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real affec-
tion, she would have understood, for affection explains
everything. But he seemed without sentiment. The
“thundering good sort” might at any moment become
“a fellow for whom I never did have much use, and have
less now,” and be shaken off cheerily into oblivion.
Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now
she never forgot any one for whom she had once cared ;
she connected, though the connection might be bitter,
and she hoped that some day Henry would do the same.
Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She
had a fancy for something rural, and, besides, no one
would be in London then, so she left her boxes for a few
weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly pub-
lished in the parish church, and for a couple of days the
254
Howards End
little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was
roused by the clang of our civilisation, and drew up by
the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton had been
a discovery of Mr. Wilcox’s — a discovery of which he was
not altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh
border, and so difficult of access that he had concluded it
must be something special. A ruined castle stood in the
grounds. But having got there, what was one to do?
The shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and women-
folk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place
turned out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, and
though he never ran down his own property to others,
he was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to let
fly. Evie’s marriage was its last appearance in public.
As soon as a tenant was found, it became a house for
which he never had had much use, and had less now, and,
like Howards End, faded into Limbo.
But on Margaret Oniton was destined to make a last-
ing impression. She regarded it as her future home, and
was anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., and,
if possible, to see something of the local life. It was a
market-town — as tiny a one as England possesses — and
had for ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our
marches against the Celt. In spite of the occasion, in
spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted her as soon
as she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington, her
senses were awake and watching, and though Oniton was
to prove one of her innumerable false starts, she never
forgot it, or the things that happened there.
The London party only numbered eight — the Fussells,
father and son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs.
Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox
and her daughter, and, lastly, the little girl, very smart
On the Way to Shropshire 255
and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who
kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect.
Dolly was absent — a domestic event detained her at
Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message; Charles
was to meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury;
Helen had refused her invitation; Tibby had never
answered his. The management was excellent, as was to
be expected with anything that Henry undertook; one
was conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the
background. They were his guests as soon as they reached
the train; a special label for their luggage; a courier; a
special lunch ; they had only to look pleasant and, where
possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her
own nuptials — presumably under the management of
Tibby. “Mr. Theobald Schelgel and Miss Helen Schle-
gel request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon’s company
on the occasion of the marriage of their sister Margaret.’*
The formula was incredible, but it must soon be printed
and sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete
with Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and pro-
vide them with sufficient chairs. Her wedding would
either be ramshackly or bourgeois — she hoped the latter.
Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that
was almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those
of her friends.
The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not
the worst background for conversation, and the journey
passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have exceeded
the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for
some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the
bell for the servant, they identified the colleges as the
train slipped past Oxford, they caught books or bag-
purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet there
256
Howards End
was nothing finicking about their politeness — it had the
public -school touch, and, though sedulous, was virile.
More battles than Waterloo have been won on our play-
ing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of which she
did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the
Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. “Male and
female created He them”; the journey to Shrewsbury
confirmed this questionable statement, and the long
glass saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfort-
able, became a forcing-house for the idea of sex.
At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for
sight-seeing, and while the others were finishing their tea
at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over the
astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not the faithful
Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her
late. Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow,
was standing in front of the hotel when they returned.
It was perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no
means the last. And then he dived into the coffee-room,
and she heard him say, “For God’s sake, hurry the
women up; we shall never be off,” and Albert Fussell re-
ply, “Not I; I ’ve done my share,” and Colonel Fussell
opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill.
Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington’s daughter) appeared,
and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little;
she had been changing her smart travelling hat for a
smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, lead-
ing the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian ladies were
always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already
gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but
there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be
packed, and five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put
off at the last moment, because Charles declared them
On the Way to Shropshire 257
not necessary. The men presided over everything with
unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was
ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge.
Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire.
Though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, it
still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing
the buttresses that force the Severn eastward and make
it an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sen-
tinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having
picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoid-
ing the greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional
summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in
quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours
altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress
behind those tossing horizons: the West, as ever, was
retreating with some secret which may not be worth
the discovery, but which no practical man will ever
discover.
They spoke of Tariff Reform.
Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies.
Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been
stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the
hospitality with which she had been received, and warn
the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans.
“They threaten to cut the painter,” she cried, “and
where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you ’ll under-
take to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is
our last hope.”
Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side,
and they began to quote from their respective hand-
books while the motor carried them deep into the hills.
Curious these were rather than impressive, for their
outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their
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Howards End
summits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread
out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional
wood, an occasional “forest,” treeless and brown, all
hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an
agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had sur-
mounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them
with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river-
girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion
unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds
across the peninsula’s neck — the sort of mansion that
was built all over England in the beginning of the last
century, while architecture was still an expression of the
national character. That was the Grange, remarked
Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake
on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. “I’m
sorry,” said he, turning round. “Do you mind getting
out — by the door on the right. Steady on.”
“What ’s happened?” asked Mrs. Warrington.
Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of
Charles was heard saying: “ Get the women out at once.”
There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her
companions were hustled out and received into the
second car. What had happened? As it started off
again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed
wildly at them.
“What is it?” the ladies cried.
Charles drove them a hundred yards without speak-
ing. Then he said: “It’s all right. Your car just
touched a dog.”
“But stop!” cried Margaret, horrified.
“It did n’t hurt him.”
“ Did n’t really hurt him?” asked Myra.
“No.”
On the Way to Shropshire 259
1 ‘Do please stop!” said Margaret, leaning forward.
She was standing up in the car, the other occupants
holding her knees to steady her. “I want to go back,
please.”
Charles took no notice.
“We ’ve left Mr. Fussell behind,” said another; “and
Angelo, and Crane.”
“Yes, but no woman.”
“I expect a little of” — Mrs. Warrington scratched her
palm — “will be more to the point than one of us!”
“The insurance company see to that,” remarked
Charles, “and Albert will do the talking.”
“I want to go back, though, I say!” repeated Mar-
garet, getting angry.
Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with
refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill.
“The men are there,” chorused the others. “Men will
see to it.”
“The men can't see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous!
Charles, I ask you to stop.”
“Stopping ’s no good,” drawled Charles.
“Isn’t it?” said Margaret, and jumped straight out
of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook
her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her.
“You’ve hurt yourself,” exclaimed Charles, jumping
after her.
“Of course I ’ve hurt myself!” she retorted.
“May I ask what ”
“There ’s nothing to ask,” said Margaret. '
“Your hand ’s bleeding.”
“I know.”
“I ’m in for a frightful row from the pater.”
“You should have thought of that sooner, Charles.”
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Howards End
Charles had never been in such a position before. It
was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him,
and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger.
He recovered himself when the others caught them up:
their sort he understood. He commanded them to go
back.
Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them.
“It’s all right!” he called. “It wasn’t a dog, it
was a cat.”
“There!” exclaimed Charles triumphantly. “It’s
only a rotten cat.”
“ Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as
I saw it wasn’t a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the
girl.” But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why
should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering
behind men, men sheltering behind servants — the whole
system ’s wrong, and she must challenge it.
“Miss Schlegel! ’Pon my word, you’ve hurt your
hand.”
“I’m just going to see,” said Margaret. “Don’t
you wait, Mr. Fussell.”
The second motor came round the corner. “It is all
right, madam,” said Crane in his turn. He had taken to
calling her madam.
“What ’s all right? The cat?”
“Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation
for it.”
“She was a very ruda girla,” said Angelo from the
third motor thoughtfully.
“Would n’t you have been rude?”
The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had
not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased
her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen
On the Way to Shropshire 261
were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of
assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand.
She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to
the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the
lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its
cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she
had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey
from London had been unreal. They had no part with
the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink,
and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had
been killed had lived more deeply than they.
“Oh, Henry,” she exclaimed, “I have been so
naughty,” for she had decided to take up this line. “We
ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I
would, and look!” She held out her bandaged hand.
“Your poor Meg went such a flop.”
Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he
was standing to welcome his guests in the hall.
“Thinking it was a dog.” added Mrs. Warrington.
“Ah, a dog's a companion!” said Colonel Fussell.
“A dog ’ll remember you.”
“Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?”
“Not to speak about; and it ’s my left hand.”
“Well, hurry up and change.”
She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then
turned to his son.
“Now, Charles, what ’s happened?'
Charles was absolutely honest. He described what
he believed to have happened. Albert had flattened
out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as
any woman might. She had been got safely into
the other car, but when it was in motion had leapt
out again, in spite of all that they could say. After
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Howards End
walking a little on the road, she had calmed down and
had said that she was sorry. His father accepted this
explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had art-
fully prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well with
their view of feminine nature. In the smoking-room,
after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view that Miss
Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he re-
membered as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar
once, how a girl — a handsome girl, too — had jumped
overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the
lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox
agreed it was much more probably nerves in Miss Schle-
gel’s case. Charles was depressed. That woman had
a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father
before she had done with them. He strolled out on to
the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening
was exquisite. On three sides of him a little river
whispered, full of messages from the West; above his
head the ruins made patterns against the sky. He care-
fully reviewed their dealings with this family, until he
fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an
orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious.
He had two children to look after, and more coming, and
day by day they seemed less likely to grow up rich men.
“ It is all very well,” he reflected, “ the pater’s saying that
he will be just to all, but one can’t be just indefinitely.
Money is n’t elastic. What ’s to happen if Evie has a
family? And, come to that, so may the pater. There
’ll not be enough to go round, for there ’s none coming
in, either through Dolly or Percy. It’s damnable!”
He looked enviously at the Grange, whose windows
poured light and laughter. First and last, this wedding
would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling
On the Way to Shropshire 263
up and down the garden terrace, and as the syllables
“Imperialism” were wafted to his ears, he guessed that
one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him,
if she too had not had a family to provide for. “Every
one for himself,” he repeated — a maxim which had
cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly enough
among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked his father’s
ability in business, and so had an ever higher regard for
money; unless he could inherit plenty, he feared to
leave his children poor.
As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace
and walked into the meadow; he recognised her as Mar-
garet by the white bandage that gleamed on her arm, and
put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray him. She
climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times stooped
down, as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds abso-
lutely incredible, but for a moment Charles thought
that she was in love with him, and had come out to tempt
him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed
the strong man’s necessary complement, and having no
sense of humour, he could not purge himself of the
thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to his
father, and his sister’s wedding-guest, kept on her way
without noticing him, and he admitted that he had
wronged her on this point. But what was she doing?
Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and
catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she
edged round the keep, she must have got to windward
and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed, “ Hullo f
Who ’s that?”
Charles made no answer.
“Saxon or Celt?” she continued, laughing in the
darkness. “But it doesn’t matter. Whichever you
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Howards End
are, you will have to listen to me. I love this place. I
love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this
will be my home. Ah, dear” — she was now moving
back towards the house — “what a comfort to have
arrived!”
“That woman means mischief,” thought Charles, and
compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her
indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were
rising from the river, and presently it became invisible,
though it whispered more loudly. There had been a
heavy downpour in the Welsh hills.
CHAPTER XXVI
A Disclosure
Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The
weather promised well, and the outline of the castle
mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched
it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the
rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The
shadow of the house gathered itself together, and fell
over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and
mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the
mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and
only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper
reaches.
Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said
that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension
that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had
caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down
from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of
the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was
insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal
joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to
stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a
rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The
rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and
she found that he was a friend of her father’s, and so
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Howards End
knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would
introduce her to the town. While, on her other side,
Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give
the word, and he would whip up the county families for
twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was
Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she
doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the
county families when they did call, she was content.
Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the
lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant
followed them with their bathing-suits. She had meant
to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the
day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watch-
ing their contretemps. In the first place the key of the
bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the
riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant
shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in
the garden. Then came a difficulty about a spring-
board, and soon three people were running backwards
and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter
orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret
wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped ; if Tibby
thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled;
if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark.
But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not
bathe without their appliances, though the morning
sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the
dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body
after all? Could not the men whom they despised as
milksops beat them, even on their own ground?
She thought of the bathing arrangements as they
should be in her day — no worrying of servants, no ap-
pliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were dis-
A Disclosure
267
turbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to
the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She
called, “Good-morning, dear,” a little sharply. Her
voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and
though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into
the shed, and was seen no more.
“Miss Wilcox is up — ” the child whispered, and then
became unintelligible.
“What ’s that?”
It sounded like, “ — cut-yoke — sack-back ”
“I can’t hear.”
“ — On the bed — tissue-paper ”
Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and
that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie’s room.
All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing
with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other
was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they
laughed, they sang, and the dog barked.
Margaret screamed a little too, but without con-
viction. She could not feel that a wedding was so
funny. Perhaps something was missing in her
equipment.
Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh,
we would rag just then!” Then Margaret went down
to breakfast.
Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke
little, and was, in Margaret’s eyes, the only member
of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She
could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his
daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he
dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally — orders
that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired
after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs
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Howards End
Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down
there was a moment’s awkwardness, and both ladies rose
to vacate their places. “ Burton,” called Henry, “serve
tea and coffee from the sideboard!” It was n’t genuine
tact, but it was tact, of a sort — the sort that is as useful
as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board
meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral,
item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and
“Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy
victory?” one would exclaim at the close.
After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with
him. It was always best to approach him formally.
She asked for the interview, because he was going on to
shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen
in town.
“Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the
time. What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“I was afraid something had gone wrong.”
“No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.”
Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at
the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her sur-
face could always respond to his without contempt,
though all her deeper being might be yearning to help
him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is
the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more
chance was there that he would set his soul in order.
Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather
by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her
that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift
of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the
clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the
Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a
A Disclosure
269
hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too
clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned
trivialities, as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the
twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond.
“If there is this nasty curve,” she suggested, “couldn’t
we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie;
but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that
would mean fewer carriages.”
“One can’t have ladies walking through the Market
Square. The Fussells wouldn’t like it; they were
awfully particular at Charles’s wedding. My — she —
one of our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the
church was just round the corner, and I should n’t have
minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it.”
“You men shouldn’t be so chivalrous,” said Margaret
thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
She knew why not, but said that she did not know.
He then announced that, unless she had anything special
to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they went off
together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a
little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house.
They clattered down flagged passages, looking into
room after room, and scaring unknown maids from the
performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast
must be in readiness whenjthey come back from church,
and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so
many agitated and serious people made Margaret smile,
but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and
enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of
the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial glory.
A little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind
could not grasp their greatness, and he said: “By your
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leave; let me pass, please.” Henry asked him where
Burton was. But the servants were so new that they
did not know one another’s names. In the still-room sat
the band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of
their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents
of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with cries.
Margaret knew what had happened there, for it hap-
pened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had
boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings
to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler.
Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down
the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who
kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard,
was astonished at the sight . “We shall never get through
it ! ” she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into
brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she
had again jumped out of the car while it was moving.
Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It
would be no small business to remain herself, and yet to
assimilate such an establishment. She must remain her-
self, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife
degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she
must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since
she had no right to marry a man and make him uncom-
fortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The
loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its
possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She
was determined to create new sanctities among these
hills.
After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then
came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when com-
pared with the preparations for it. Everything went
like one o’clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space,
A Disclosure
271
and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No
one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, or
trod on Evie’s train, or cried. In a few minutes the
clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed,
and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the
dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was con-
vinced that they had not been married at all, and that
the Norman church had been intent all the time on
other business.
There were more documents to sign at the house, and
the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped
in for the garden party. There had been a great many
refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair — not
as big as Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and
the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give
Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for
something better than this blend of Sunday church and
fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But
this wedding had gone off so particularly well — “quite
like a durbar” in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she
thoroughly agreed with her.
So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and
bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the
second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales.
Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her
in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness,
said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so
well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed ;
certainly she had done all she could with his intractable
friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the
men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the
Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and
the others were already moving towards the house to
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finish their packing. “I think it did go off well,” she
agreed. “Since I had to jump out of the motor, I ’m
thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very
glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at
ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember
that we have no practical person among us, except my
aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large
scale.”
“I know,” he said gravely. “Under the circum-
stances, it would be better to put everything into the
hands of Harrod’s or Whiteley’s, or even to go to some
hotel.”
“You desire a hotel?”
“Yes, because — well, I mustn’t interfere with you.
No doubt you want to be married from your old home.”
“My old home ’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only
want my new. Is n’t it a perfect evening ”
“The Alexandrina is n’t bad ”
“The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with
the threads of smoke that were issuing from their
chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels
of grey.
“It ’s off Curzon Street.”
“Is it? Let ’s be married from off Curzon Street.”
Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling
gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught
it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious
liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s bathing-
shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and
when they moved back to the house, she could not recog-
nise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A
parlour-maid was preceding them.
“Who are those people?” she asked.
A Disclosure
273
“They ’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It ’s too late
for callers.”
“Perhaps they ’re town people who want to see the
wedding presents.”
“I’m not at home yet to townees.”
“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them,
I will.”
He thanked her.
Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She sup-
posed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have
to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and
Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their
rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long.
For one of the group was Helen — Helen in her oldest
clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excite-
ment that had made her a terror in their nursery days.
“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what ’s wrong? Is
Tibby ill?”
Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back.
Then she bore forward furiously.
“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them
starving!”
‘ ‘ Who ? Why have you come ? ’ ’
“The Basts.”
“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have
you done now?”
“ He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his
bank. Yes, he ’s done for. We upper classes have
ruined him, and I suppose you ’ll tell me it ’s the
battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving.
She fainted in the train.”
“Helen, are you mad?”
“Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve
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brought them. I ’ll stand injustice no longer. I ’ll
show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury,
this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing
what we ’re too slack to do ourselves.”
“Have you actually brought two starving people from
London to Shropshire, Helen?”
Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and
her hysteria abated. “There was a restaurant car on
the train,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you
know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won’t
have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes,
how dare you!” she repeated, as anger filled her, “burst-
ing in to Evie’s wedding in this heartless way. My
goodness ! but you ’ ve a perverted notion of philanthropy.
Look” — she indicated the house — “servants, people
out of the windows. They think it ’s some vulgar
scandal, and I must explain, ‘ Oh no, it ’s only my sister
screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she
has brought here for no conceivable reason.’ ”
“Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,* ” said
Helen, ominously calm.
“Very well,” conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath
was determined to avoid a real quarrel. “I, too, am
sorry about them, but it beats me why you ’ve brought
them here, or why you ’re here yourself.”
“It ’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.”
Margaret moved towards the house at this. She
was determined not to worry Henry.
“He ’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on
seeing him.”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“ I knew it was our last chance.”
A Disclosure
275
“How do you do, Mr. Bast?” said Margaret, trying to
control her voice. “This is an odd business. What
view do you take of it?”
“There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen.
Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was
shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially
stupid that she could not grasp what was happening.
She only knew that the lady had swept down like a
whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the
furniture, provided them with a dinner and a break-
fast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next
morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the
morning came, had suggested that they should n’t go.
But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had
told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room
had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Pad-
dington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot,
and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared
amid torrents of expensive scent. “You have fainted,”
said the lady in an awe-struck voice. “Perhaps the
air will do you good.” And perhaps it had, for here
she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.
“I ’m sure I don’t want to intrude,” began Leonard,
in answer to Margaret’s question. “But you have
been so kind to me in the past in warning me about
the Porphyrion that I wondered — why, I wondered
whether ”
“Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion
again,” supplied Helen. “Meg, this has been a cheerful
business. A bright evening’s work that was on Chelsea
Embankment.”
Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
“I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion
27 6
Howards End
because we suggested it was a bad concern, did n’t
you?”
“That ’s right.”
“And went into a bank instead?”
“I told you all that,” said Helen; “and they reduced
their staff after he had been in a month, and now he ’s
penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are
directly to blame.”
“I hate all this,” Leonard muttered.
“I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it ’s no good mincing
matters. You have done yourself no good by coming
here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call
him to account for a chance remark, you will make a
very great mistake.”
“I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen.
“I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has
put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you
so. It ’s too late to get to town, but you ’ll find a com-
fortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and
I hope you ’ll be my guests there.”
“That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel,” said
Leonard. “You’re very kind, and no doubt it’s a
false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no
good at all.”
“It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t
you see?”
Then he said: “ Jacky, let ’s go. We ’re more bother
than we ’re worth. We ’re costing these ladies pounds
and pounds already to get work for us, and they never
will. There ’s nothing we ’re good enough to do.”
“We would like to find you work,” said Margaret
rather conventionally. “We want to — I, like my sister.
You ’re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have
A Disclosure
2 77
a good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back
the bill, if you prefer it.”
But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments
men see clearly. “You don’t know what you ’re talk-
ing about,” he said. “I shall never get work now. If
rich people fail at one profession, they can try another.
Not I. I had my groove, and I ’ve got out of it. I
could do one particular branch of insurance in one
particular office well enough to command a salary, but
that ’s all. Poetry ’s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One’s
thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money,
too, is nothing, if you ’ll understand me. I mean if a man
over twenty once loses his own particular job, it ’s all
over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their
friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they
fall over the edge. It ’s no good. It ’s the whole world
pulling. There always will be rich and poor.”
He ceased. “Won’t you have something to eat?”
said Margaret. “I don’t know what to do. It isn’t
my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad
to see you at any other time — as I say, I don’t know
what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you.
Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich,
Mrs. Bast.”
They moved to a long table behind which a servant
was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable,
coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact;
their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard re-
fused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Mar-
garet left them whispering together, and had a few
more words with Helen.
She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he ’s
worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible.”
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Howards End
“No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.”
“Let me tell you once for all that if you take up
that attitude, I ’ll do nothing. No doubt you ’re right
logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing
things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So choose.”
Helen looked at the sunset.
“If you promise to take them quietly to the George,
I will speak to Henry about them — in my own way,
mind ; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about
justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a
question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he
wants work, and that we can’t give him, but possibly
Henry can.”
“It ’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen.
“Nor am I concerned with duty. I ’m concerned
with the characters of various people whom we know, and
how, things being as they are, things may be made a
little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all
business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the
risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little
better.”
“Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.”
“Take them off to the George, then, and I ’ll try.
Poor creatures! but they look tired.” As they parted,
she added: “I haven’t nearly done with you, though,
Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can’t
get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as
you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or
we shan’t have happy lives.”
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting
down: these physical matters were important. “Was
it townees?” he asked, greeting her with a pleasant
smile.
A Disclosure
279
“You ’ll never believe me,” said Margaret, sitting
down beside him. “It ’s all right now, but it was my
sister.”
“ Helen here?” he cried, preparing to rise. “But
she refused the invitation. I thought 'she despised
weddings.’*
“Don’t get up. She has not come to the wedding.
I *ve bundled her off to the George.”
Inherently hospitable, he protested.
“No; she has two of her proteges with her, and must
keep with them.”
“Let ’em all come.”
“My dear Henry, did you see them?”
“I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman,
certainly.”
“The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight
of a sea-green and salmon bunch?”
“What! are they out bean-feasting?”
“No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on
I want to talk to you about them.”
She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing
with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from com-
radeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he
desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: “Why
later on? Tell me now. No time like the present.”
“Shall I?”
“If it is n’t a long story.”
“Oh, not five minutes; but there *s a sting at the end
of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your
office.”
“What are his qualifications?”
“I don’t know. He ’s a clerk.”
“How old?”
28 o
Howards End
“Twenty-five, perhaps.”
“What ’s his name?”
“Bast,” said Margaret, and was about to remind him
that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped her-
self. It had not been a successful meeting.
“Where was he before?”
“Dempster’s Bank.”
“Why did he leave?” he asked, still remembering
nothing.
“They reduced their staff.”
“All right; I ’ll see him.”
It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the
day. Now she understood why some women prefer in-
fluence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning
suffragettes, had said: “The woman who can’t influence
her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be
ashamed of herself.” Margaret had winced, but she was
influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little
victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods
of the harem.
“I should be glad if you took him,” she said, “but I
don’t know whether he ’s qualified.”
“I ’ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this must n’t
be taken as a precedent.”
“No, of course — of course ”
“I can’t fit in your prot6g£s every day. Business
would suffer.”
“I can promise you he ’s the last. He — he ’s rather
a special case.”
“Prot6g6s always are.”
She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra
touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help
her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was
A Disclosure
281
and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she
herself — hovering as usual between the two, now accept-
ing men as they are, now yearning with her sister for
Truth. Love and Truth — their warfare seems eternal.
Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they
were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was
reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into
thin air.
“Your protege has made us late,” said he. “The
Fussells will just be starting.”
On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry
would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End,
while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics
of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the
world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of moun-
tain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with
which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton,
like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted,
its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border
warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between
things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more
the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were
dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for
us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret
descended the mound on her lover’s arm, she felt that
she was having her share.
To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden;
the husband and Helen had left her there to finish
her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret
found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shak-
ing her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered
the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again
odours from the abyss — odours the more disturbing
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Howards End
because they were involuntary. For there was no
malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one
hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no
harm to anybody.
“She ’s overtired,” Margaret whispered.
“She’s something else,” said Henry. “This won’t
do. I can’t have her in my garden in this state.”
“Is she — ” Margaret hesitated to add “drunk.”
Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown
particular. He discountenanced risque conversations
now.
Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face,
which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball.
“ Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,”
he said sharply.
Jacky replied: “If it is n’t Hen!”
“ Ne crois pas gue le mari lui ressemble ,” apologised
Margaret. 11 II est tout a fait different .”
“Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly.
Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I can’t con-
gratulate you on your proteges,” he remarked.
“Hen, don’t go. You do love me, dear, don’t you?”
“Bless us, what a person!” sighed Margaret, gather-
ing up her skirts.
Jacky pointed with her cake. “You ’re a nice boy,
you are.” She yawned. “There now, I love you.”
“Henry, I am awfully sorry.”
“And pray why?” he asked, and looked at her so
sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more
scandalised than the facts demanded.
“To have brought this down on you.”
“Pray don’t apologise.”
The voice continued.
A Disclosure 283
“Why does she call you ‘Hen’?” said Margaret in-
nocently. “Has she ever seen you before? ”
“Seen Hen before!” said Jacky. “Who hasn’t seen
Hen? He ’s serving you like me, my dear. These
boys! You wait — Still we love ’em.”
“Are you now satisfied?” Henry asked.
Margaret began to grow frightened. “I don’t know
what it is all about,” she said. “Let ’s come in.”
But he thought she was acting. He thought he was
trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. “Don’t
you indeed?” he said bitingly. “I do. Allow me to
congratulate you on the success of your plan.”
“This is Helen’s plan, not mine.”
“I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very
well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Mar-
garet. You are quite right — it was necessary. I am a
man, and have lived a man’s past. I have the honour
to release you from your engagement.”
Still she could not understand. She knew of life’s
seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact.
More words from Jacky were necessary — words un-
equivocal, undenied.
“So that — ” burst from her, and she went indoors.
She stopped herself from saying more.
“So what?” asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting
ready to start in the hall.
“We were saying — Henry and I were just having
the fiercest argument, my point being — ” Seizing his
fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on.
He protested, and there was a playful little scene.
“No, let me do that,” said Henry, following.
“Thanks so much! You see — he has forgiven
me!”
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Howards End
The Colonel said gallantly: “I don’t expect there’s
much to forgive.”
He got into the car. The ladies followed him after
an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had
been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering,
still thanking their host and patronising their future
hostess, the guests were borne away.
Then Margaret continued: “So that woman has been
your mistress?”
“You put it with your usual delicacy,” he replied.
“When, please?”
“Why?”
“When, please?”
“Ten years ago.”
She left him without a word. For it was not her
tragedy; it was Mrs. Wilcox’s.
CHAPTER XXVII
Two Kinds of People
Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of
eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry.
Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had
left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night
in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had
made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done.
Margaret would play the game properly now, and though
Helen disapproved of her sister’s methods, she knew
that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run.
“Mr. Wilcox is so illogical,” she explained to Leonard,
who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her
in the empty coffee-room. “If we told him it was his
duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact
is, he is n’t properly educated. I don’t want to set you
against him, but you ’ll find him a trial.”
“I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel,”
was all that Leonard felt equal to.
“I believe in personal responsibility. Don’t you?
And in personal everything. I hate — I suppose I
ought n’t to say that — but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong
tack surely. Or perhaps it is n’t their fault. Perhaps
the little thing that says * I ’ is missing out of the middle
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286
Howards End
of their heads, and then it ’s a waste of time to blame
them. There ’s a nightmare of a theory that says a
special race is being born which will rule the rest of us
in the future just because it lacks the little thing that
says ‘I/ Had you heard that?”
”1 get no time for reading.”
“Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds
of people — our kind, who live straight from the middle of
their heads, and the other kind who can’t, because their
heads have no middle? They can’t say ‘I.’ They
are n't in fact, and so they ’re supermen. Pierpont
Morgan has never said ‘I’ in his life.”
Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted
intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was
more important than his ruined past. “I never got on
to Nietzsche,” he said. “But I always understood that
those supermen were rather what you may call egoists.”
“Oh no, that ’s wrong,” replied Helen. “No super-
man ever said ‘I want,’ because ‘I want’ must lead to
the question, ‘Who am I? ’ and so to Pity and to Justice.
He only says ‘ want.’ ‘Want Europe, ’4f he ’s Napoleon ;
‘want wives,’ if he ’s Bluebeard; ‘want Botticelli,’ if he ’s
Pierpont Morgan. Never the ‘I’; and if you could
pierce through the superman, you ’d find panic and
emptiness in the middle.”
Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said:
“May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both
the sort that say ‘I’?”
“Of course.”
“And your sister, too?”
“Of course,” repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was
annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed.
“All presentable people say ‘I.’ ”
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Two Kinds of People
“But Mr. Wilcox — he is not perhaps —
“I don’t know that it’s any good discussing Mr.
Wilcox either.”
“Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. Helen asked herself
why she had snubbed him. Once or twice during the day
she had encouraged him to criticise, and then had pulled
him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If
so, it was disgusting of her.
But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Every-
thing she did was natural, and incapable of causing
offence. While the Miss Schlegels were together he had
felt them scarcely human — a sort of admonitory whirli-
gig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was
in Helen’s case unmarried, in Margaret’s about to be
married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light
had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw
that it was full of men and women, some of whom were
more friendly to him than others. Helen had become
“his” Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and corresponded
with him, and had swept down yesterday with grateful
vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe
and remote. He would not presume to help her, for in-
stance. He had never liked her, and began to think that
his original impression was true, and that her sister did
not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who
gave away so much, was receiving too little. Leonard
was pleased to think that he could spare her vexation by
holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about
Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery when
he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shock, he
did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions
about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the
face of a love that had never been pure. To keep per-
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Howards End
fection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the future
gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for
Helen’s sake, must not know.
Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation
to his wife. “Mrs. Bast — does she ever say ‘I’?” she
asked, half mischievously, and then, “Is she very tired?”
“It ’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard.
“Shall I sit up with her?”
“No, thank you; she does not need company.”
“Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?”
Leonard blushed up to his eyes.
“You ought to know my ways by now. Does that
question offend you?”
“No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.”
“Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your mar-
riage has been a happy one. You and she can have
nothing in common.”
He did not deny it, but said shyly: “ I suppose that ’s
pretty obvious; but Jacky never meant to do anybody
any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things,
I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it ’s
more mine. I need n’t have married her, but as I have
I must stick to her and keep her.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Nearly three years.”
“What did your people say?”
“They will not have anything to do with us. They
had a sort of family council when they heard I was mar-
ried, and cut us off altogether.”
Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My
good boy, what a mess!” she said gently. “Who are
your people?”
He could answer this. His parents, who were dead,
Two Kinds of People 289
had been in trade; his sisters had married commercial
travellers ; his brother was a lay-reader.
“And your grandparents?”
Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful
up to now. “They were just nothing at all,” he said —
“agricultural labourers and that sort.”
“So! From which part?”
“Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father — he,
oddly enough, came from these parts round here.”
“From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My
mother’s people were Lancashire. But why do your
brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can
bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell the
more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything
against her?”
He was silent.
“I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely.
“I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.”
“We must be honest, even over these things. I have
guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does
not make the least difference to me. I shall feel just
the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for
these things, but men.”
Leonard left it at that — so long as she did not guess the
man. She stood at the window and slowly pulled up
the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The
mists had begun. When she turned back to him her
eyes were shining.
“Don’t you worry,” he pleaded. “I can’t bear that.
We shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get
work — something regular to do. Then it wouldn’t
19
290
Howards End
be so bad again. I don’t trouble after books as I used.
I can imagine that with regular work we should settle
down again. It stops one thinking.”
“Settle down to what?”
' “Oh, just settle down.”
“And that ’s to be life!” said Helen, with a catch in
her throat. “How can you, with all the beautiful
things to see and do — with music — with walking at
night ”
“Walking is well enough when a man ’s in work,” he
answered. “Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but
there ’s nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out
of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and
Stevensons, I seemed to see life straight and real, and it
is n’t a pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to
you, but they ’ll never be the same to me again, and I
shan’t ever again think night in the woods is wonderful.”
“Why not?” asked Helen, throwing up the window.
“Because I see one must have money.”
“Well, you ’re wrong.”
“I wish I was wrong, but — the clergyman — he has
money of his own, or else he ’s paid; the poet or the
musician — just the same; the tramp — he ’s no different.
The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid
for with other people’s money. Miss Schlegel the real
thing ’s money, and all the rest is a dream.”
“You ’re still wrong. You ’ve forgotten Death.”
Leonard could not understand.
“ If we lived for ever, what you say would be true. But
we have to die, we have to leave life presently. In-
justice and greed would be the real thing if we lived for
ever. As it is, we must hold to other things, because
Death is coming. I love Death — not morbidly, but
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Two Kinds of People
because He explains. He shows me the emptiness of
Money. Death and Money are the eternal foes. Not
Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death,
Mr. Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and
the tramp will be happier in it than the man who has
never learnt to say, ‘I am I.’ ”
“I wonder.”
“We are all in a mist — I know, but I can help you this
far — men like the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than
any. Sane, sound Englishmen! building up empires,
levelling all the world into what they call common sense.
But mention Death to them and they ’re offended, be-
cause Death ’s really Imperial, and He cries out against
them for ever.”
“I am as afraid of Death as any one.”
“But not of the idea of Death.”
“But what is the difference?”
“Infinite difference,” said Helen, more gravely than
before.
Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense
of great things sweeping out of the shrouded night. But
he could not receive them, because his heart was still
full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt
the concert at Queen’s Hall, so the lost situation was
obscuring the diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and
Materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take
him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was
king of this world, the superman, with his own morality,
whose head remained in the clouds.
“I must be stupid,” he said apologetically.
: While to Helen the paradox became clearer and
clearer. “ Death destroys a man : the idea of Death saves
him.” Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay
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Howards End
the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that
is great in us responds to it. Men of the world may re-
coil from the charnel-house that they will one day enter,
but Love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer,
and in their age-long struggle the thews of Love have
been strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is
no one who can stand against him.
“So never give in,” continued the girl, and restated
again and again the vague yet convincing plea that the
Invisible lodges against the Visible. Her excitement
grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard
to the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted
her. Presently the waitress entered and gave her a letter
from Margaret. Another note, addressed to Leonard,
was inside. They read them, listening to the murmur-
ings of the river.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Core of the Question
For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she con-
trolled herself, and wrote some letters. She was too
bruised to speak to Henry; she could pity him, and even
determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep in her
heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his degra-
dation was too strong. She could not command voice or
look, and the gentle words that she forced out through
her pen seemed to proceed from some other person.
“My dearest boy,” she began, “this is not to part us.
It is everything or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing.
It happened long before we ever met, and even if it had
happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. I
do understand.”
But she crossed out “I do understand”; it struck a
false note. Henry could not bear to be understood. She
also crossed out, “It is everything or nothing.” Henry
would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She
must not comment; comment is unfeminine.
“I think that ’ll about do,” she thought.
Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he
worth all this bother? To have yielded to a woman of
that sort was everything, yes, it was, and she could not
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Howards End
be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation into
her own language, and her brain reeled. Men must be
different, even to want to yield to such a temptation. Her
belief in comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as
from that glass saloon on the Great Western, which shel-
tered male and female alike from the fresh air. Are the
sexes really races, each with its own code of morality,
and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to keep
things going? Strip human intercourse of the pro-
prieties, and is it reduced to this? Her judgment told
her no. She knew that out of Nature’s device we have
built a magic that will win us immortality. Far more
mysterious than the call of sex to sex is the tenderness
that we throw into that call ; far wider is the gulf between
us and the farmyard than between the farmyard and the
garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in ways
that Science cannot measure, to ends that Theology
dares not contemplate. “Men did produce one jewel,”
the gods will say, and, saying, will give us immortality.
Margaret knew all this, but for the moment she could not
feel it, and transformed the marriage of Evie and Mr.
Cahill into a carnival of fools, and her own marriage —
too miserable to think of that, she tore up the letter, and
then wrote another:
“ Dear Mr. Bast,
“I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I pro-
mised, and am sorry to say that he has no vacancy for
you.
“Yours truly,
“M. J. SCHLEGEL.”
She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she
295
The Core of the Question
took less trouble than she might have done; but her head
was aching, and she could not stop to pick her words:
“ Dear Helen,
“Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry
found the woman drunk on the lawn. I am having a
room got ready for you here, and will you please come
round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all
the type we should trouble about. I may go round to
them myself in the morning, and do anything that is fair.
“M.”
In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being
practical. Something might be arranged for the Basts
later on, but they must be silenced for the moment.
She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman
and Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one
answered it; Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone
to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Saturnalia.
Consequently she went over to the George herself.
She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have
been perilous, and, saying that the letter was important,
she gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed the square
she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of the window of
the coffee-room, and feared she was already too late.
Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what
she had done.
This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The
night wind had been rattling the pictures against the
wall, and the noise had disturbed him.
“Who ’s there?” he called, quite the householder.
Margaret walked in and past him.
“I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is
best here; so don’t lock the front-door.”
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Howards End
“I thought some one had got in,” said Henry.
“At the same time I told the man that we could do
nothing for him. I don’t know about later, but now the
Basts must clearly go.”
“Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after
all?”
“Probably.”
“Is she to be shown up to your room?”
“I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going
to bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could
some one go to carry her bag?”
He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to
summon the servants.
“You must make more noise than that if you want
them to hear.”
Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came
shouts of laughter. “Far too much screaming there,”
he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went up-
stairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met,
or sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened,
and her deepest instincts told her that this was wrong.
For his own sake, some explanation was due.
And yet — what could an explanation tell her? A
date, a place, a few details, which she could imagine all
too clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she
saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast.
Henry’s inner life had long laid open to her — his in-
tellectual confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence,
his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him
because his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Per-
haps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was
done long before her day. She struggled against the
feeling. She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox’s wrong was
297
The Core of the Question
her own. But she was not a barren theorist. As she
undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire
for a scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he
liked, for she loved him, and some day she would use
her love to make him a better man.
Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this
crisis. Pity, if one may generalise, is at the bottom of
woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities,
and however tender their liking, we dare not be unworthy
of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness
stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for
good or for evil.
Here was the core of the question. Henry must be
forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mattered.
Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must be left
to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion
now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blunder-
ing up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known
of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret
fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the
murmurs of the river that descended all the night from
Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home,
colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for
the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning
mists.
CHAPTER XXIX
A Sudden Departure
“Henry dear — ” was her greeting.
He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the
Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt
by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was
unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face
where it had been, she looked up in his eyes.
“Henry dear, look at me. No, I won’t have vou
shirking. Look at me. There. That ’s all.”
“You’re referring to last evening,” he said huskily.
1 1 1 have released you from your engagement I could find
excuses, but I won’t. No, I won’t. A thousand times
no. I ’m a bad lot, and must be left at that.”
Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building
a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her,
so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was
not true repentance.
“Leave it where you will, boy. It’s not going to
trouble us; I know what I ’m talking about, and it will
make no difference.”
“No difference?” he inquired. “No difference, when
you find that I am not the fellow you thought?” He
was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have
preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to
298
A Sudden Departure 299
rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that
she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too
straight; they had read books that are suitable for men
only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though
she had determined against one, there was a scene, all
the same. It was somehow imperative.
“I am unworthy of you,” he began. “Had I been
worthy, I should not have released you from your en-
gagement. I know what I am talking about. I can’t
bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it.”
She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and,
rising to his feet, went on: “You, with your sheltered life,
and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and
your sister, and women like you — I say, how can you
guess the temptations that lie round a man?”
“It is difficult for us,” said Margaret; “but if we are
worth marrying, we do guess.”
“Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do
you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows over-
seas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter ex-
perience, and yet you say it makes ‘no difference.’ ”
“Not to me.”
He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the side-
board and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes.
Being the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that
kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew
that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as point-
ing out the gulf between the male soul and the female,
and she did not desire to hear him on this point.
“Did Helen come?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“But that won’t do at all, at all! We don’t want her
gossiping with Mrs. Bast.”
300
Howards End
“Good God! no!” he exclaimed, suddenly natural.
Then he caught himself up. “Let them gossip. My
game ’s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness —
little as my thanks are worth.”
“Did n’t she send me a message or anything?”
“I heard of none.”
“Would you ring the bell, please?”
“What to do?”
“Why, to inquire.”
He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal.
Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler
came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the
George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to
the George?
“I ’ll go, thank you,” said Margaret, and dismissed
him.
“It is no good,” said Henry. “Those things leak
out; you cannot stop a story once it has started. I
have known cases of other men — I despised them once,
I thought that I ’ m different, I shall never be tempted.
Oh, Margaret — ” He came and sat down near her,
improvising emotion. She could not bear to listen to
him. “We fellows all come to grief once in our time.
Will you believe that? There are moments when the
strongest man — ‘Let him who standeth, take heed
lest he fall.’ That ’s true, is n’t it? If you knew all,
you would excuse me. I was far from good influences —
far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and
longed for a woman’s voice. That ’s enough. I have
told you too much already for you to forgive me now.”
“Yes, that ’s enough, dear.”
“ I have ” — he lowered his voice — ‘ ‘ I have been through
hell.”
30i
A Sudden Departure
Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had
he suffered tortures of remorse, or had it been, “There!
that ’s over. Now for respectable life again”? The
latter, if she read him rightly. A man who has been
through hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble
and hides it, if, indeed, it still exists. Only in legend
does the sinner come forth penitent, but terrible, to
conquer pure woman by his resistless power. Henry
was anxious to be terrible, but had not got it in him.
/He was a good average Englishman, who had slipped.')
\ The really culpable point — his faithlessness to Mrs.
J Wilcox — never seemed to strike him. She longed to
mention Mrs. Wilcox.
And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very
simple story. Ten years ago was the time, a garrison
town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked her
whether she could possibly forgive him, and she answered,
“I have already forgiven you, Henry.” She chose her
words carefully, and so saved him from panic. She
played the girl, until he could rebuild his fortress and
hide his soul from the world. When the butler came
to clear away, Henry was in a very different mood —
asked the fellow what he was in such a hurry for, com-
plained of the noise last night in the servants’ hall.
Margaret looked intently at the butler. He, as a hand-
some young man, was faintly attractive to her as a
woman — an attraction so faint as scarcely to be per-
ceptible, yet the skies would have fallen if she had
mentioned it to Henry.
On her return from the George the building operations
were complete, and the old Henry fronted her, com-
petent, cynical, and kind. He had made a clean breast,
had been forgiven, and the great thing now was to forget
302
Howards End
his failure, and to send it the way of other unsuccessful
investments. Jacky rejoined Howards End and Ducie
Street, and the vermilion motor-car, and the Argentine
Hard Dollars, and all the things and people for whom he
had never had much use and had less now. Their mem-
ory hampered him. He could scarcely attend to Mar-
garet, who brought back disquieting news from the
George. Helen and her clients had gone.
“Well, let them go — the man and his wife, I mean, for
the more we see of your sister the better.”
“But they have gone separately — Helen very early,
the Basts just before I arrived. They have left no mes-
sage. They have answered neither of my notes. I don’t
like to think what it all means.”
“What did you say in the notes?”
“I told you last night.”
“Oh — ah — yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the
garden?”
Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather
soothed her. But the wheels of Evie’s wedding were
still at work, tossing the guests outwards as deftly as they
had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long.
It had been arranged that they should motor to Shrews-
bury, whence he would go north, and she back to London
with the Warringtons. For a fraction of time she was
happy. Then her brain recommenced.
“I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind at
the George. Helen would not have left unless she had
heard something. I mismanaged that. It is wretched.
I ought to have parted her from that woman at once.”
“Margaret!” he exclaimed, loosing her arm impres-
sively.
“ Y es — yes , Henry ? ’ ’
A Sudden Departure
303
“I am far from a saint — in fact, the reverse — but you
have taken me, for better or worse. Bygones must be
bygones. You have promised to forgive me. Mar-
garet, a promise is a promise. Never mention that
woman again.”
“Except for some practical reason — never.”
“Practical! You practical!”
“Yes, I ’m practical,” she murmured, stooping over
the mowing-machine and playing with the grass which
trickled through her fingers like sand.
He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy.
Not for the first time, he was threatened with black-
mail. He was rich and supposed to be moral ; the Basts
knew that he was not, and might find it profitable to
hint as much.
“At all events, you must n’t worry,” he said. “This
is a man ’s business.” He thought intently. “On no
account mention it to anybody.”
Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was
really paving the way for a lie. If necessary he would
deny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast, and prosecute
her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here
was Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There
the house. Round them were half a dozen gardeners,
clearing up after his daughter’s wedding. All was so
solid and spruce, that^he past flew up out of sight
like a spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes
unrolled.}
Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round
during the next five, and plunged into action. Gongs
were tapped, orders issued, Margaret was sent to dress,
and the housemaid to sweep up the long trickle of grass
that she had left across the hall. As is Man to the Uni-
3»4
Howards End
verse, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of
some men — a concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little
Ten Minutes moving self-contained through its ap-
pointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for the Now, and
may be wiser than all philosophers. He lived for the
five minutes that have past, and the five to come; he
had the business mind.
How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of
Oniton and breasted the great round hills? Margaret
had heard a certain rumour, but was all right. She had
forgiven him, God bless her, and he felt the manlier for
it. Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never must
hear. No more must Paul. Over his children he felt
great tenderness, which he did not try to track to a
cause; Mrs. Wilcox was too far back in his life. He did
not connect her with the sudden aching love that he felt
for Evie. Poor little Evie! he trusted that Cahill would
make her a decent husband.
And Margaret? How did she stand?
She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had
heard something. She dreaded meeting her in town.
And she was anxious about Leonard, for whom they cer-
tainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to starve.
But the main situation had not altered. She still loved
Henry. His actions, not his disposition, had disap-
pointed her, and she could bear that. And she loved
her future home. Standing up in the car, just where
she had leapt from it two days before, she gazed back
with deep emotion upon Oniton. Besides the Grange
and the Castle keep, she could now pick out the church
and the black-and-white gables of the George. There
was the bridge, and the river nibbling its green peninsula.
She could even see the bathing-shed, but while she was
A Sudden Departure 305
looking for Charles’s new spring-board, the forehead of
the hill rose and hid the whole scene.
She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows
down into England, day after day the sun retreats into
the Welsh mountains, and the tower chimes, See the
Conquering Hero . But the Wilcoxes have no part in
the place, nor in any place. It is not their names that
recur in the parish register. It is not their ghosts that
sigh among the alders at evening. They have swept into
the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and
a little money behind.
20
CHAPTER XXX
Helen Consults with Tibby
Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He
had moved out of college, and was contemplating the
Universe, or such portions of it as concerned him, from
his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall. He was not
concerned with much. When a young man is untroubled
by passions and sincerely indifferent to public opinion
his outlook is necessarily limited. Tibby wished
neither to strengthen the position of the rich nor to
improve that of the poor, and so was well content to
watch the elms nodding behind the mildly embattled
parapets of Magdalen. There are worse lives. Though
selfish, he was never cruel; though affected in manner,
he never posed. Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic
equipment, and it was only after many visits that men
discovered Schlegel to possess a character and a brain.
He had done well in Mods, much to the surprise of those
who attended lectures and took proper exercise, and was
now glancing disdainfully at Chinese in case he should
some day consent to qualify as a Student Interpreter.
To him thus employed Helen entered. A telegram had
preceded her.
He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had altered.
306
307
Helen Consults with Tibby
As a rule he found her too pronounced, and had never
come across this look of appeal, pathetic yet dignified —
the look of a sailor who has lost everything at sea.
“I have come from Oniton,” she began. “There has
been a great deal of trouble there.”
“Who ’s for lunch?” said Tibby, picking up the claret,
which was warming in the hearth. Helen sat down sub-
missively at the table. “Why such an early start?” he
asked.
“Sunrise or something — when I could get away.”
“So I surmise. Why?”
“I don’t know what ’s to be done, Tibby. I am very
much upset at a piece of news that concerns Meg, and
do not want to face her, and I am not going back to
Wickham Place. I stopped here to tell you this.”
The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibby put a
marker in the leaves of his Chinese Grammar and helped
them. Oxford — the Oxford of the vacation — dreamed
and rustled outside, and indoors the little fire was coated
with grey where the sunshine touched it. Helen
continued her odd story.
“Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone.
I mean to go to Munich or else Bonn.”
“Such a message is easily given,” said her brother.
“As regards Wickham Place and my share of the
furniture, you and she are to do exactly as you like.
My own feeling is that everything may just as well be
sold. What does one want with dusty economic books,
which have made the world no better, or with mother’s
hideous chiffoniers? I have also another commission
for you. I want you to deliver a letter.” She got up.
“I haven’t written it yet. Why shouldn’t I post it,
though?” She sat down again. “My head is rather
3°8
Howards End
wretched. I hope that none of your friends are likely
to come in.”
Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in
this condition. Then he asked whether anything had
gone wrong at Evie’s wedding.
“Not there,” said Helen, and burst into tears.
He had known her hysterical — it was one of her aspects
with which he had no concern — and yet these tears
touched him as something unusual. They were nearer
the things that did concern him, such as music. He laid
down his knife and looked at her curiously. Then, as
she continued to sob, he went on with his lunch.
The time came for the second course, and she was
still crying. Apple Charlotte was to follow, which
spoils by waiting. “Do you mind Mrs. Martlett com-
ing in?” he asked, “or shall I take it from her at the
door?”
“Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?”
He took her to his bedroom, and introduced the pud-
ding in her absence. Having helped himself, he put it
down to warm in the hearth. His hand stretched to-
wards the Grammar, and soon he was turning over the
pages, raising his eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at human
nature, perhaps at Chinese. To him thus employed
Helen returned. She had pulled herself together, but
the grave appeal had not vanished from her eyes.
“Now for the explanation,” she said. “Why didn’t
I begin with it? I have found out something about Mr.
Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and
ruined two people’s lives. It all came on me very sud-
denly last night; I am very much upset, and I do not
know what to do. Mrs. Bast ”
“Oh, those people!”
Helen Consults with Tibby 309
Helen seemed silenced.
“Shall I lock the door again?”
“No thanks, Tibbikins. You ’re being very good to
me. I want to tell you the story before I go abroad.
You must do exactly what you like — treat it as part of
the furniture. Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think.
But I cannot face her and tell her that the man she is
going to marry has misconducted himself. I don’t even
know whether she ought to be told. Knowing as she
does that I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think
that I want to ruin her match. I simply don’t know
what to make of such a thing. I trust your judgment.
What would you do?”
“I gather he has had a mistress,” said Tibby.
Helen flushed with shame and anger. “And ruined
two people’s lives. And goes about saying that personal
actions count for nothing, and there always will be rich
and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich
out in Cyprus — I don’t wish to make him worse than he
is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him. But
there it is. They met. He goes his way and she goes
hers. What do you suppose is the end of such women? ”
He conceded that it was a bad business.
“They end in two ways: Either they sink till the
lunatic asylums and the workhouses are full of them,
and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the papers com-
plaining of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap a
boy into marriage before it is too late. She — I can’t
blame her.”
“But this is n’t all,” she continued after a long pause,
during which the landlady served them with coffee. “I
come now to the business that took us to Oniton. We
went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox’s advice, the man
3io
Howards End
throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one,
from which he is dismissed. There are certain excuses,
but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg her-
self admitted. It is only common justice that he should
employ the man himself. But he meets the woman, and,
like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries to get rid of
them. He makes Meg write. Two notes came from
her late that evening — one for me, one for Leonard, dis-
missing him with barely a reason. I could n’t under-
stand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to
Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her to get rooms,
and was still speaking about him when Leonard came
back to her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought
it natural he should be ruined twice. Natural! Could
you have contained yourself?”
“It is certainly a very bad business,” said Tibby.
His reply seemed to calm his sister. “I was afraid
that I saw it out of proportion. But you are right out-
side it, and you must know. In a day or two — or per-
haps a week — take whatever steps you think fit. I
leave it in your hands.”
She concluded her charge.
“The facts as they touch Meg are all before you,” she
added; and Tibby sighed and felt it rather hard that,
because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to
serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human
beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had
rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as
some people cease to attend when books are mentioned,
so Tibby ’s attention wandered when “personal rela-
tions” came under discussion. Ought Margaret to
know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar
questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he
Helen Consults with Tibby 31 1
had learned to say that the importance of human beings
has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram,
with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But
he might have let it off now if his sister had not been
ceaselessly beautiful.
“You see, Helen — have a cigarette — I don’t see what
I ’m to do.’’
“Then there ’s nothing to be done. I dare say you
are right. Let them marry. There remains the ques-
tion of compensation.”
“Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you
not better consult an expert?”
“This part is in confidence,” said Helen. “It has
nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her.
The compensation — I do not see who is to pay it if I
don’t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum.
As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and
when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I
shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do
this.”
“What is the sum?”
“Five thousand.”
t “Good God alive!” said Tibby, and went crimson.
1 “Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through
life having done one thing — to have raised one person
from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and
blankets — making the grey more grey. No doubt peo-
ple will think me extraordinary.”
“I don’t care an iota what people think!” cried he,
heated to unusual manliness of diction. “But it ’s
half what you have.”
“Not nearly half.” She spread out her hands over
her soiled skirt. “I have far too much, and we settled
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Howards End
at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is
necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will
bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It is n’t
enough. ’ ’
He could not recover. He was not angry or even
shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty
to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks
people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations
would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five
thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for
him personally.
“I did n’t expect you to understand me.”
“I? I understand nobody.”
“But you ’ll do it?”
“Apparently.”
“I leave you two commissions, then. The first, con-
cerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion.
The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned
to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a
hundred pounds on account to-morrow.”
He walked with her to the station, passing through
those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him
and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes
and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the ganglion
of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was
the phantom, how faint its claim to represent England.
Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing; the
Basts were in her brain, and she retold the crisis in a
meditative way, which might have made other men
curious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He
asked her once why she had taken the Basts right into
the heart of Evie’s wedding. She stopped like a fright-
ened animal and said, “Does that seem to you so odd?”
Helen Consults with Tibby 313
Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted
him, until they were absorbed into the figure of St. Mary
the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on the
walk home.
It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his
duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was
terrified at Helen’s flight, and he had to say that she
had called in at Oxford. Then she said : * ‘ Did she seem
worried at any rumour about Henry?” He answered,
“Yes.” “I knew it was that!” she exclaimed. “I ’ll
write to her.” Tibby was relieved.
He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen
gave him, and stated that he was instructed to forward
later on five thousand pounds. An answer came back
very civil and quiet in tone — such an answer as Tibby
himself would have given. The cheque was returned,
the legacy refused, the writer being in no need of money.
Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in the fulness of
his heart that Leonard Bast seemed somewhat a monu-
mental person after all. Helen’s reply was frantic. He
was to take no notice. He was to go down at once and
say that she commanded acceptance. He went. A
scurf of books and china ornaments awaited him. The
Basts had just been evicted for not paying their rent, and
had wandered no one knew whither. Helen had begun
bungling with her money by this time, and had even
sold out her shares in the Nottingham and Derby Rail-
way. For some weeks she did nothing. Then she
reinvested, and, owing to the good advice of her stock-
brokers, became rather richer than she had been before.
CHAPTER XXXI
Established in Ducie Street )
Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as vari-
ously as the generations of men, some with a tragic
roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of
ghosts, while from others — and thus was the death of
Wickham Place — the spirit slips before the body per-
ishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating
the girls more than they knew, and causing either to
accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a
corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the
memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its
round-topped doorway passed furniture, and pictures,
and books, until the last room was gutted and the last
van had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two
longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness.
Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it back into the
grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper,
they were not the worst of undertakers for a house
which had always been human, and had not mistaken
culture for an end.
The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into
Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly offered
Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died
abroad — an unsatisfactory affair — and as there seemed
314
Established in Ducie Street
3i5
little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly,
he cancelled the agreement, and resumed possession
himself. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were
welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and lower
rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the
offer gladly; it saved him from coming to any decision
about the future. The plate and the more valuable
pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk
of the things went country- ways, and were entrusted
to the guardianship of Miss Avery.
Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were
married. They have weathered the storm, and may
reasonably expect peace. ( To have no illusions and yet
to love — what stronger surety can a woman find? She
had seen her husband’s past as well as his heart.' She
knew her own heart with a thoroughness that common-
place people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs.
Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious
to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were
married quietly — really quietly, for as the day ap-
proached she refused to go through another Oniton.
•Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of
health, presided over a few colourless refreshments.
The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who wit-
nessed the marriage settlement, and by Mr. Cahill.
Paul did send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and
without the aid of music, the clergyman made them man
and wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts
off married couples from the world. She, a monogamist,
regretted the cessation of some of life’s innocent odours ;
he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced
by the change and less liable to the temptations that
had assailed him in the past.
3*6
Howards End
They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry
knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped
for a meeting with her sister. In this she was disap-
pointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over
the Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory post-card
from the shores of the Lake of Garda, saying that her
plans were uncertain and had better be ignored. Evi-
dently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are
surely enough to accustom an outsider to a situation
which a wife has accepted in two days, and Margaret
had again to regret her sister’s lack of self-control.
In a long letter she pointed out the need of charity
in sexual matters; so little is known about them; it
is hard enough for those who are personally touched
to judge; then how futile must be the verdict of Society.
“I don’t say there is no standard, for that would destroy
morality; only that there can be no standard until our
impulses are classified and better understood.” Helen
thanked her for her kind letter — rather a curious reply.
She moved south again, and spoke of wintering in
Naples.
Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed.
Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There
were still moments when it pained him. Had he only
known that Margaret was awaiting him — Margaret, so
lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive — he would
have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of group-
ing the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with
another episode that had taken place in the days of his
bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for
which he was heartily sorry, and he could not see that
those oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in
another’s dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity were
Established in Ducie Street
3i7
as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only
moral teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter
into his calculations at all, for poor old Ruth had never
found him out.
His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her
cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked
to see her reading poetry or something about social
questions; it distinguished her from the wives of other
men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book
up and was ready to do what he wished. Then they
would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him
in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew really
serious, she gave in. Man is for war, woman for the
recreation of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if
she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real
battle, having no muscles, only nerves. Nerves make
her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be
married fashionably. The warrior may well allow her
to triumph on such occasions; they move not the im-
perishable plinth of things that touch his peace.
Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during
the honeymoon. He told her — casually, as was his
habit — that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her
annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not
been consulted.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “ Be-
sides, I have only heard for certain this morning.”
“Where are we to live?” said Margaret, trying to
laugh. “I loved the place extraordinarily. Don’t
you believe in having a permanent home, Henry?”
He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is
home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner.
But he did not believe in a damp home.
318
Howards End
“This is news. I never heard till this minute that
Oniton was damp.”
“My dear girl!” — he flung out his hand — “have you
eyes? have you a skin? How could it be anything but
damp in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange
is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have
been; then there ’s that detestable little river, steaming
all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; lookup
under the eaves. Ask Sir James or any one. Those
Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible
place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my
part, I think the country is too far from London, and
the scenery nothing special.”
Margaret could not resist saying, “Why did you go
there, then?”
“I — because — ” He drew his head back and grew
rather angry. “Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it
comes to that? One might go on asking such questions
indefinitely. ”
One might; but he was only gaining time for a plaus-
ible answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon
as it was spoken.
“The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie.
Don’t let this go any further. ”
“Certainly not.”
“ I should n’t like her to know that she nearly
let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did
I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor
little girl ! She was so keen on it all, and would n’t
even wait to make proper inquiries about the
shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up — just
like all of your sex. Well, no harm ’s done. She
has had her country wedding, and I ’ve got rid of my
Established in Ducie Street 319
house to some fellows who are starting a preparatory
school.”
“ Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy
living somewhere.”
“I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?”
Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her
from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of
this nomadic civilisation which is altering human
nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal re-
lations a stress greater than they have ever borne before.
Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive
no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and moun-
tains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that
they once exercised on character must be entrusted
to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task!
“It is now what?” continued Henry. “Nearly
October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street,
and look out for something in the spring.”
“If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as
young as I was, for these alterations don’t suit me.”
“But, my dear, which would you rather have — altera-
tions or rheumatism?”
“I see your point,” said Margaret, getting up. “If
Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be
inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us
look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and
not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand
this time. These endless moves must be bad for the
furniture, and are certainly expensive.”
“What a practical little woman it is! What ’s it been
reading? Theo — theo — how much?”
“Theosophy.”
So Ducie Street was her first fate — a pleasant enough
320
Howards End
fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham
Place, trained her for the immense establishment that
was promised in the spring. They were frequently
away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the
morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich —
a relic this of some prehistoric craving — was always
cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sand-
wich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he
grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was
the house to look after, and the servants to humanise,
and several kettles of Helen’s to keep on the boil. Her
conscience pricked her a little about the Basts ; she was
not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard
was worth helping, but being Henry’s wife, she preferred
to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion
societies, they attracted her less and less. She began
to “miss” new movements, and to spend her spare time
re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her
Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her mar-
riage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her
not to travel further from her husband than was in-
evitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had
outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to
>s a pity not to keep up with
some closing of the gates is
inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become
a creative
CHAPTER XXXII
A Piece of News
She was looking at plans one day in the following
spring — they had finally decided to go down into Sussex
and build — when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced.
“Have you heard the news?” Dolly cried, as soon as
she entered the room. Charles is so ang — I mean he is
sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don’t know.”
“Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her.
“Here ’s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?”
Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a
great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis
Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had
tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older
inhabitants, had said — Charles had said — the tax-
collector had said — Charles had regretted not saying —
and she closed the description with, “But lucky you,
with four courts of your own at Midhurst.”
“It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret.
“Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing
them?”
“Of course not.”
“Charles has never seen the plans.”
“They have only just arrived. Here is the ground
321
21
322
Howards End
floor — no, that ’s rather difficult. Try the elevation.
We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque
sky-line.”
“What makes it smell so funny?” said Dolly, after
a moment’s inspection. She was incapable of under-
standing plans or maps.
“I suppose the paper.”
“And which way up is it?”
“Just the ordinary way up. That ’s the sky-line »
and the part that smells strongest is the sky.”
“Well, ask me another. Margaret — oh — what was
I going to say? How ’s Helen?”
“Quite well.”
“Is she never coming back to England? Every one
thinks it ’s awfully odd she does n’t.”
“So it is,” said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexa-
tion. She was getting rather sore on this point. “ Helen
is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months.”
“But hasn’t she any address?”
“A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her ad-
dress. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you.”
“ No, don’t bother. That ’s eight months she has been
away, surely?”
“Exactly. She left just after Evie’s wedding. It
would be eight months.”
“Just when baby was born, then?”
“Just so.”
Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-
room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and
good looks. The Charles’s were not well off, for Mr.
Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive
tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves.
After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet
A Piece of News
323
another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and
they would have to give up the motor. Margaret
sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little
imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox
to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed
again, and at last the particular grievance was remem-
bered. “Oh, yes,” she cried, “that is it: Miss Avery
has been unpacking your packing-cases.”
“Why has she done that? How unnecessary!”
i “Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.”
“I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the
things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire.”
“It was far more than an air,” said Dolly solemnly.
“The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent
me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you
don’t know.”
“Books!” cried Margaret, moved by the holy word.
“Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our
books?”
“Hasn’t she, though! What used to be the hall’s
full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew
of it.”
“ I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can
have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about
it at once. Some of the books are my brother’s, and
are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the
cases.”
“I say she ’s dotty. She was the one that never got
married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps, she thinks
your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids
are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us
all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with
Evie.”
324
Howards End
“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Margaret. A visit
from Dolly had its compensations.
“ Did n’t you know she gave Evie a present last
August, and Evie returned it, and then — oh, goloshes!
You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote.”
“ But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It was n’t
like her to do such a heartless thing.”
“But the present was so expensive.”
“Why does that make any difference, Dolly?”
“Still, when it costs over five pounds — I didn’t
see it, but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond
Street shop. You can’t very well accept that kind of
thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?”
“You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you
were married.”
“Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff — not worth
a halfpenny. Evie’s was quite different. You ’d have
to ask any one to the wedding who gave you a pendant
like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and father and
Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four
men agree, what is a girl to do? Evie did n’t want to
upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter
best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to
save Miss Avery trouble.”
“But Miss Avery said ”
Dolly’s eyes grew round. “It was a perfectly
awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman.
In the end she had the pendant back again from the
shop and threw it into the duck-pond.”
“Did she give any reasons?”
“We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and
so climb into society.”
“She ’s rather old for that,” said Margaret pensively.
A Piece of News
325
‘ May she not have given the present to Evie in remem-
brance of her mother?”
“That ’s a notion. Give every one their due, eh?
Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along,
Mr. Muff — you want a new coat, but I don’t know who ’ll
give it you, I ’m sure;” and addressing her apparel
with mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room.
Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew
about Miss Avery’s rudeness.
“Oh yes.”
“I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after
the house.”
“But she’s only a farm woman,” said Dolly, and
her explanation proved correct. Henry only censured
the lower classes when it suited him. He bore with
Miss Avery as with Crane — because he could get good
value out of them. 1 ‘ I have patience with a man who
knows his job,” he would say, really having patience
with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may
sound, he had something of the artist about him; he
would pass over an insult to his daughter sooner than
lose a good charwoman for his wife.
Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble
herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry’s
permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery,
asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the
first convenient opportunity, she went down herself,
intending to repack her belongings and store them
properly in the local warehouse; the plan had been
amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany
her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So,
for the second time in her life, she entered the house
alone.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate
The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of
unclouded happiness that she was to have for many
months. Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary
absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush
with Miss Avery — that only gave zest to the expedition.
She had also eluded Dolly’s invitation to luncheon.
Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the
village green and entered the long chestnut avenue that
connects it with the church. The church itself stood
in the village once. But it there attracted so many
worshippers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from
its foundations, and poised it on an inconvenient knoll,
three quarters of a mile away. If this story is true,
the chestnut avenue must have been planted by the
angels. No more tempting approach could be imagined
for the lukewarm Christian, and if he still finds the
walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science
having built Holy Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the
Charles’s and roofed it with tin.
Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to
watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches
of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the
326
Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 327
lower branches. Why has not England a great mytho-
logy? Our folklore has never advanced beyond dainti-
ness, and the greater melodies about our country-side
have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and
true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have
failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the
fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer
field, or give names to half a dozen stars. England
still waits for the supreme moment of her literature —
for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still
for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass
into our common talk. •
At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut
avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which
led into the untouched country. She followed it for
over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having
no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished,
taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the
view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates
that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less ob-
trusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither
aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult,
but Margaret knew what it was not : it was not snobbish.
Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of
freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain,
and the distant brow of the Chiltems towered like a
mountain. “Left to itself,” was Margaret’s opinion,
“this county would vote Liberal.” The comradeship,
not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was
promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called
for the key.
But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A
most finished young person received her. “Yes, Mrs.
328
Howards End
Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie
received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up
to your little place at the present moment. Shall I
send the servant to direct you?’’ Followed by: “Of
course, auntie does not generally look after your place;
she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something
exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends
quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me
sometimes, “Where ’s auntie?’ I say, ‘Need you ask?
She ’s at Howards End.’ Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs.
Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of
cake? Not if I cut it for you?”
Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this
gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery’s niece.
“I cannot let you go on alone. Now don’t. You
really must n’t. I will direct you myself if it comes to
that. I must get my hat. Now” — roguishly — “Mrs.
Wilcox, don’t you move while I ’m gone.”
Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best
parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen.
But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they
conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here
had lived an elder race, to which we look back with dis-
quietude. The country which we visit at week-ends
was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life,
the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have
their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All
was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The
thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-
rose. Some children were playing uproariously in
heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness
at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her
a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if
Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 329
anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole,
group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal
youth, connect — connect without bitterness until all
men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted
by the return of Miss Avery’s niece, and were so tran-
quillising that she suffered the interruption gladly.
It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after
due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was
now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up
to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal
sow. She did not know what animals were coming to.
But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air.
The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling
the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over
Evie’s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring,
in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over
the land and then fell silent. “Georgie,” sang the
thrush. “Cuckoo,” came furtively from the cliff of
pine-trees. “Georgie, pretty Georgie,” and the other
birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-
painted picture which would be finished in a few days.
Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and prim-
roses in the defended hollows ; the wild rose-bushes, still
bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise
of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb,
yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who
walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces
before her and the zephyr behind.
The two women walked up the lane full of outward
civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it
was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and
the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged,
they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of ‘ ‘ Auntie ! ’ ’
330 Howards End
severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door
was locked.
“Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?” asked
Margaret.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here
daily. ”
Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room
window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So
with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance
of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember
their being there on her other visit; her impression
was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They
tried the back. Here again they received no answer,
and could see nothing; the kitchen- window was fitted
with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces
of wood propped up against them, which looked omi-
nously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought
of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the
first cry she succeeded.
“Well, well!” replied some one inside the house. “ If
it is n’t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!”
“Have you got the key, auntie?”
“Madge, go away,” said Miss Avery, still invisible.
“Auntie, it’s Mrs. Wilcox ”
Margaret supported her. “Your niece and I have
come together ”
“ Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat. ”
The poor woman went red. “Auntie gets more
eccentric lately,” she said nervously.
“Miss Avery!” called Margaret. “I have come
about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the voice, “of course.”
But after that came silence. They called again
Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 331
without response. They walked round the house dis-
consolately.
“I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” said Madge, “perhaps
I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing
to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times.” Gathering
up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her
departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened
at once.
Miss Avery said, “Wellcome right in, Mrs. Wilcox!”
quite pleasantly and calmly.
“Thank you so much,” began Margaret, but broke
off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own.
“Come right into the hall first,” said Miss Avery.
She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of
despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The
hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from
Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big
work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases
filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father’s
sword — this is what bewildered her particularly — had
been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst
the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked
for days.
“I ’m afraid this isn’t what we meant,” she began.
“Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be
touched. For instance, these books are my brother’s.
We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is
abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after
things, we never expected you to do so much. ”
“The house has been empty long enough,” said the
old woman.
Margaret refused to argue. “I dare say we didn’t
332
Howards End
explain, ” she said civilly. “It has been a mistake, and
very likely our mistake.”
“Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake
for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she
would not desire it to stand empty any longer.”
To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said:
“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox’s house, the mother of Mr. Charles.”
“Mistake upon mistake, ” said Miss Avery. “ Mistake
upon mistake.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Margaret, sitting down
in one of her own chairs. “I really don’t know what’s
to be done.” She could not help laughing.
The other said: “Yes, it should be a merry house
enough.”
“I don’t know — I dare say. Well, thank you very
much, Miss Avery. Yes, that ’s all right. Delightful.”
“There is still the parlour.” She went through the
door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the
drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. “And
the dining-room.” More curtains were drawn, more
windows were flung open to the spring. “Then through
here — ” Miss Avery continued passing and repass-
ing through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Mar-
garet heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. “I ’ve
not finished here yet,” she announced, returning.
“There ’s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry
your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to
go into expense at Hilton. ”
“It is all a mistake,” repeated Margaret, feeling
that she must put her foot down. “A misunderstand-
ing. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards
End.”
“Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?”
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Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate
“We have settled to build a new home for ourselves
in Sussex, and part of this furniture— my part— will
go down there presently.’ ’ She looked at Miss Avery
intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain.
Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles
were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of
scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility.
“You think that you won’t come back to live here,
Mrs. Wilcox, but you will.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Margaret, smiling.
“We have no intention of doing so for the present.
We happen to need a much larger house. Circum-
stances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some
day — one never knows, does one?”
Miss Avery retorted: “Some day! Tcha! tcha!
Don’t talk about some day. You are living here now.”
“Am I?”
“You are living here, and have been for the last ten
minutes, if you ask me.”
It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling
of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt
that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went
into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in
upon her mother’s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many
an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture
fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room — over
the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years
ago — Miss Avery had placed Tibby’s old bassinette.
“The nursery, ” she said.
Margaret turned away without speaking.
At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby
were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far
as she could make out, nothing had been broken or
334
Howards End
scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then
they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone
wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy,
and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage.
And Evie’s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie
was responsible for Miss Avery’s oddness. But Margaret
suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl’s
silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years.
“ It ’s a beautiful meadow,” she remarked. It was one
of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed,
hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So
the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right
angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex —
a sort of powder-closet for the cows.
“Yes, the maidy’s well enough,” said Miss Avery,
“for those, that is, who don’t suffer from sneezing.”
And she cackled maliciously. “I ’ve seen Charlie
Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time — oh, they ought
to do this — they must n’t do that — he ’d learn them to
be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He has
it from his father, with other things. There ’s not one
Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June — I
laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth.”
“My brother gets hay fever too,” said Margaret.
“This house lies too much on the land for them.
Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first.
But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you ’ve
found.”
Margaret laughed.
“They keep a place going, don’t they? Yes, it is
just that.”
“They keep England going, it is my opinion.”
But Miss Avery upset her by replying: “Ay, they
Margaret’s Second Visit to the Estate 335
breed like rabbits. Well, well, it ’s a funny world.
But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I
suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it
is n’t for us to repine.”
“They breed and they also work,” said Margaret,
conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was
echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds.
“It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like
my husband and his sons govern it, I think it ’ll never
be a bad one — never really bad. ”
“No, better ’n nothing,” said Miss Avery, and turned
to the wych-elm.
On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old
friend much more clearly than before. In the house
Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished
the first wife from the second. Now she said: “I never
saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we
stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs.
Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let any one
be turned away without food. Then it was never
* Trespassers will be prosecuted ’ in their land, but would
people please not come in? Mrs. Howard was never
created to run a farm.”
“Had they no men to help them?” Margaret asked.
Miss Avery replied: “Things went on until there were
no men.”
“Until Mr. Wilcox came along,” corrected Margaret,
anxious that her husband should receive his dues.
“I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a — no
disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were
intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him
first or no.”
“Whom should she have married?”
336 Howards End
“A soldier!” exclaimed the old woman. “Some real
soldier.”
Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry’s
character far more trenchant than any of her own.
She felt dissatisfied.
“But that ’s all over,” she went on. “A better time
is coming now, though you ’ve kept me long enough
waiting. In a couple of weeks I ’ll see your light
shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you
ordered in coals?”
“We are not coming,” said Margaret firmly. She
respected Miss Avery too much to humour her. “No.
Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake.
The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very
sorry, but I am making other arrangements, and must
ask you to give me the keys.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox,” said Miss Avery, and
resigned her duties with a smile.
Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her
compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the
station. She had intended to go to the furniture ware-
house and give directions for removal, but the muddle
had turned out more extensive than she expected, so
she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she
did this. He was strongly against employing the local
man whom he had previously recommended, and advised
her to store in London after all.
But before this could be done an unexpected trouble
fell upon her.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Helen’s “Madness”
It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley’s health
had been bad all winter. She had had a long series
of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid
of them. She had scarcely promised her niece “to
really take my tiresome chest in hand, ” when she caught
a chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and
Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed
for, and that spring party that after all gathered in
that hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories.
On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain,
and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest
of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through
the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness
of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws
no light upon another; the groping inquiry must begin
anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise, but we
know that no generality is possible about those whom
we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one
oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out
of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having
stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could
not rise to the occasion, or realise the great mystery
337
338
Howards End
which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her
that she was quite done up — more done up than ever
before; that she saw and heard and felt less every
moment ; and that, unless something changed, she would
soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to
plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions?
were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She wor-
ried herself about Helen’s absence, and also that she
should be the cause of Helen’s return. The nurses
seemed to think such interests quite natural, and per-
haps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate.
But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance;
whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process
can be trivial and hideous.
“Important — Margaret dear, take the Lulworth
when Helen comes.”
“Helen won’t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has
telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you.
She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well.”
‘ ‘ How very odd of Helen ! Mr. Wilcox ’ ’
“Yes, dear?”
“Can he spare you?”
Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind.
Yet again Margaret said so.
Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a
more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on
the downward slope. She returned, without emotion,
as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of
danger.
“Margaret — important,” it went on: “I should like
you to have some companion to take walks with. Do
try Miss Conder.”
“I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder.”
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Helen’s “Madness”
"But she is not really interesting. If only you had
Helen.”
“I have Tibby, Aunt Juley. ”
“No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real com-
panion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd.”
“Helen is odd, very,” agreed Margaret.
“Not content with going abroad, why does she want
to go back there at once?”
“No doubt she will change her mind when she sees
us. She has not the least balance.”
That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Mar-
garet’s voice trembled as she made it. By now she
was deeply pained at her sister’s behaviour. It may be
unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight
months argues that the heart is awry as well as the
head. A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf
to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she
would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste
restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become
dull and infrequent ; she had no wants and no curiosity.
And it was all put down to poor Henry’s account!
Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too in-
famous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid,
and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace
the growth of morbidity back in Helen’s life for nearly
four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced
patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the
Downs — all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy
whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. Mar-
garet and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss
again. Foolishly — the real danger was reaction. Re-
action against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life
until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had
340 Howards End
an idSe fixe. What hope was there for her as an old
woman?
The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed
she became. For many months she had put the subject
away, but it was too big to be slighted now. There
was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen’s
actions to be governed by a tiny mishap, such as may
happen to any young man or woman? Can human
nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The
blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital.
It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren;
it was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than
reason or books. In one of her moods Helen had con-
fessed that she still “enjoyed” it in a certain sense.
Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress endured.
And where there is enjoyment of the past there may
also be reaction — propagation at both ends.
Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such
seed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed.
But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfer-
ing the earth, and heedless of the growths within himself.
He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it
to the specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner
to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to
digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more
patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded
— so far as success is yet possible. She does understand
herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own
growth. Whether Helen has succeeded one cannot say.
The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen’s letter arrived.
She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London
herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting letter,
though the opening was affectionate and sane.
Helen’s “Madness”
34i
“ Dearest Meg,
“Give Helen’s love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that
I love, and have loved her ever since I can remember.
I shall be in London Thursday.
“My address will be care of the bankers. I have not
yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and
give me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much better,
or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming
down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do
not come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am
living abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly
as possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture
is? I should like to take out one or two books; the rest
are for you.
“Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like
rather a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your
loving
“Helen.”
It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to
tell a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in
danger her sister would come. Unhealthiness is con-
tagious. We cannot be in contact with those who are
in a morbid state without ourselves deteriorating. To
“act for the best” might do Helen good, but would do
herself harm, and, at the risk of disaster, she kept her
colours flying a little longer. She replied that their
aunt was much better, and awaited developments.
Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he
was a pleasanter companion than before. Oxford had
done much for him. He had lost his peevishness, and
could hide his indifference to people and his interest in
food. But he had not grown more human. The years
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Howards End
between eighteen and twenty- two, so magical for most,
were leading him gently from boyhood to middle age.
He had never known young-manliness, that quality
which warms the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox
an imperishable charm. He was frigid, through no fault
of his own, and without cruelty. He thought Helen
wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was
for him what a scene behind footlights is for most people.
He had only one suggestion to make, and that was
characteristic.
“Why don’t you tell Mr. Wilcox?”
“About Helen?”
“Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing.”
“He would do all he could, but ”
“Oh, you know best. But he is practical.”
It was the student’s belief in experts. Margaret
demurred for one or two reasons. Presently Helen’s
answer came. She sent a telegram requesting the
address of the furniture, as she would now return at
once. Margaret replied, “Certainly not; meet me at
the bankers’ at four.” She and Tibby went up to
London. Helen was not at the bankers’, and they were
refused her address. Helen had passed into chaos.
Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was
all that she had left, and never had he seemed more
unsubstantial.
“Tibby love, what next?”
He replied: “It is extraordinary.”
“Dear, your judgment’s often clearer than mine.
Have you any notion what ’s at the back?”
“None, unless it ’s something mental.”
“Oh — that!” said Margaret. “Quite impossible.”
But the suggestion had been uttered, and in a few
Helen’s “Madness”
343
minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained.
And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off
the city, and she saw it for what it really is — a caricature
of infinity. The familiar barriers, the streets along
which she moved, the houses between which she had
made her little journeys for so many years, became
negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy
trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of mud.
She had accomplished a hideous act of renunciation
and returned to the One. Margaret’s own faith held
firm. She knew the human soul will be merged, if it be
merged at all, with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt
that her sister had been going amiss for many years.
It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on
a London afternoon, while rain fell slowly.
Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He
might know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden
from them, and she determined to take Tibby’s advice
and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call
at his office. He could not well make it worse. She
went for a few moments into St. Paul's, whose dome
stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the
gospel of form. But within, St. Paul’s is as its sur-
roundings— echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, in-
visible mosaics, wet footmarks, crossing and recrossing
the floor. Si monumentum requiris, circumspice ; it points
us back to London. There was no hope of Helen here.
Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had
expected. He was overjoyed to see her back from
Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble.
When they told him of their search, he only chaffed
Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it
was “just like Helen” to lead her relatives a dance.
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Howards End
“That is what we all say,” replied Margaret. “But
why should it be just like Helen? Why should she
be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?”
“Don’t ask me. I ’m a plain man of business. I
live and let live. My advice to you both is, don’t
worry. Margaret, you ’ve got black marks again under
your eyes. You know that ’s strictly forbidden. First
your aunt — then your sister. No, we are n’t going to
have it. Are we, Theobald?” He rang the bell. “I ’ll
give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie
Street. I can’t have my girl looking as old as her
husband.”
“All the same, you have not quite seen our point,”
said Tibby.
Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, “I
don’t suppose I ever shall.” He leant back, laugh-
ing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire
flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned
to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed
her.
“ Margaret’s point is this, ” he said. “Our sister may
be mad.”
Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked
round.
“Come in, Charles,” said Margaret kindly. “Could
you help us at all? We are again in trouble.”
“ I ’m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are
all mad more or less, you know, in these days. ”
“The facts are as follows,” replied Tibby, who had
at times a pedantic lucidity. “The facts are that she
has been in England for three days and will not see us.
She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address.
She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her
Helen’s “Madness”
345
letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are
the most striking.”
“She has never behaved like this before, then?” asked
Henry.
“Of course not!” said his wife, with a frown.
“Well, my dear, how am I to know?”
A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. “You
know quite well that Helen never sins against affection,”
she said. “You must have noticed that much in her,
surely.”
“Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together.”
“No, Henry — can’t you see? — I don’t mean that.”
She recovered herself, but not before Charles had
observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching
the scene.
“I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the
past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run.
She behaved oddly because she cared for some one,
or wanted to help them. There ’s no possible excuse
for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that
is why I am sure that she is not well. ‘Mad’ is too
terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never
believe it. I should n’t discuss my sister with you
if I thought she was well — trouble you about her, I
mean.”
Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him
something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he
could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations.
The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one
could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife
was seized, he had promised to take her down into
Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-
home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that
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Howards End
he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning
as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.
“You want to get hold of her?” he said. “That ’s
the problem, is n’t it? She has got to see a doctor.”
“For all I know she has seen one already.”
“Yes, yes; don’t interrupt.” He rose to his feet
and thought intently. The genial, tentative host
disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had
carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought
forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. “I ’ve
got it,” he said at last. “It ’s perfectly easy. Leave
it to me. We ’ll send her down to Howards End.”
“How will you do that?”
“After her books. Tell her that she must unpack
them herself. Then you can meet her there.”
“But, Henry, that ’s just what she won’t let me do.
It ’s part of her — whatever it is — never to see me.”
“Of course you won’t tell her you ’re going. When
she is there, looking at the cases, you ’ll just stroll in.
If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But
there ’ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run
her to a specialist in no time.”
Margaret shook her head. “It ’s quite impossible. ’’
“Why?”
“It doesn’t seem impossible to me,” said Tibby;
“it is surely a very tippy plan.”
“It is impossible, because — ” She looked at her
husband sadly. “It’s not the particular language
that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would
do splendidly for other people, whom I don’t blame.”
“But Helen doesn’t talk,” said Tibby. “That’s
our whole difficulty. She won’t talk your particular
language, and on that account you think she ’s ill.”
Helen’s “Madness”
347
“No, Henry; it ’s sweet of you, but I could n’t.”
“I see,” he said; “you have scruples.”
“I suppose so.”
“And sooner than go against them you would have
your sister suffer. You could have got her down to
Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples
are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive,
I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is
a question of madness- ”
“I deny it ’s madness.”
“You said just now ”
“ It ’s madness when I say it, but not when you say it. ”
Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Margaret! Mar-
garet ! ” he groaned. “No education can teach a woman
logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you
want me to help you or not? ”
“Not in that way.”
“Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer.
Do ”
Charles surprised them by interrupting. “Pater,
we may as well keep Howards End out of it,” he said.
“Why, Charles?”
Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as
if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed
between them.
“The whole house is at sixes and sevens,” he said
crossly. “We don’t want any more mess.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” asked his father. “My boy, pray
who ’s ‘we’?”
“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Charles. “I
appear always to be intruding.”
By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned
her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible.
348
Howards End
He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory
conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair,
flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she
was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might
hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase.
She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband’s
dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards
End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 p.m.,
when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was
a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen
would think she was offended. And on Monday next
she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then
ambush themselves in the garden.
After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: “I
can’t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret ’s
too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her.”
Charles made no answer.
“Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?”
“No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger
business than you reckon. ”
“How?”
“Don’t ask me.”
CHAPTER XXXV
The Trap Is Set
One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that
are her true children have only one mood; they are all
full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling
of birds. New flowers may come out, the green em-
broidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven
broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures,
seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow.
The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery,
and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the
scales of a single balance. Time might never have
moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his
schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he
saw her through a veil of tears.
She protested no more. Whether Henry was right
or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other
standard by which to judge him. She must trust him
absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business,
his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest
indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be
staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie.
They went down in the morning as arranged, and he
discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton.
349
350
Howards End
On his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the
village, and had a few minutes’ serious conversation
with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not
know — perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after
lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had
taken a fly to Howards End.
“She was bound to drive,” said Henry. “There will
be her books.”
“I cannot make it out,” said Margaret for the
hundredth time.
“Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off.”
“Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty,”
said Dolly.
Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her
eyes. Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which
he did not answer. In the silence the motor came round
to the door.
“You ’re not fit for it,” he said anxiously. “Let me
go alone. I know exactly what to do.”
“Oh yes, I am fit,” said Margaret, uncovering her
face. “Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel
that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams
seem to have come from some one else. Her voice is n’t
in them. I don’t believe your driver really saw her
at the station. I wish I ’d never mentioned it. I know
that Charles is vexed. Yes, he is — ” She seized
Dolly’s hand and kissed it. “There, Dolly will forgive
me. There. Now we ’ll be off. ”
Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not
like this breakdown.
“Don’t you want to tidy yourself?” he asked.
“Have I time?”
“Yes, plenty.”
The Trap Is Set 351
She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as
soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly :
“Dolly, I’m going without her.”
Dolly’s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She
followed him on tiptoe out to the car.
“Tell her I thought it best.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see.”
“Say anything you like. All right.”
The car started well, and with ordinary luck would
have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing
in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the
middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran
one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed.
Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and
was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a
single word ; he was only treating her as she had treated
Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to
indicate what Helen would feel against them. She
thought, “I deserve it; I am punished for lowering my
colours.” And she accepted his apologies with a calm-
ness that astonished him.
“I still consider you are not fit for it,” he kept
saying.
“Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing
is spread clearly before me now.”
“I was meaning to act for the best.”
“Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes
one ’s hair so.”
“Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?”
“Look! My hands have stopped trembling.”
“And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her
cab should already have arrived at Howards End.
(We ’re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move
352
Howards End
will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible,
one does n’t want a scene before servants. A certain
gentleman” — he pointed at Crane’s back — “won’t
drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate,
behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the
house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they aren’t wanted. Do you remember how
the house stands?”
“Yes.”
“If we don’t find her in the porch, we can stroll
round into the garden. Our object ”
Here they stopped to pick up the doctor.
“I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our
main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house,
as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite
natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently
nervous — wouldn’t you say so, Margaret?”
The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions
about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything
congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that
was likely to alienate her from her family?
“Nothing,” answered Margaret, wondering what
would have happened if she had added: “Though she
did resent my husband’s immorality.”
“She always was highly strung,” pursued Henry,
leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. “A
tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing
serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say
normal — a very charming girl.”
Margaret’s anger and terror increased every moment.
How dare these men label her sister! What horrors
lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the
353
The Trap Is Set
name of science! The pack was turning on Helen,
to deny her human rights, and it seemed to Margaret
that all Schlegels were threatened with her. “Were
they normal?’’ What a question to ask! And it is
always those who know nothing about human nature,
who are bored by psychology and shocked by physiology,
who ask it. However piteous her sister’s state, she
knew that she must be on her side. They would be
mad together if the world chose to consider them so.
It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed
down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery
was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had
gone past. She nodded, and the next moment they
caught sight of it, at the end of the lane. The car ran
silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen
that she was sitting in the porch, with her back to the
road. She had come. Only her head and shoulders
were visible. She sat framed in the vine, and one of
her hands played with the buds. The wind ruffled her
hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she had always been.
Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her
husband could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran
to the garden gate, which was shut, passed through
it, and deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise
alarmed Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an un-
familiar movement, and, rushing into the porch, learnt
the simple explanation of all their fears — her sister was
with child.
“Is the truant all right?” called Henry.
She had time to whisper: “Oh, my darling—” The
keys of the house were in her hand. She unlocked
Howards End and thrust Helen into it. “Yes, all
right,” she said, and stood with her back to the door.
23
CHAPTER XXXVI.,
The Scandal Is Out
“Margaret, you look upset!” said Henry.
Mansbridge had followed. Crane was at the gate,
and the flyman had stood up on the box. Margaret
shook her head at them; she could not speak any more.
She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future
depended on them. Henry was asking more questions.
She shook her head again. His words had no sense.
She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. “You
might have given me a knock with the gate, ” was another
of his remarks. Presently she heard herself speaking.
She, or some one for her, said, “ Go away.” Henry came
nearer. He repeated, “Margaret, you look upset again.
My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with
Helen?”
“Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all.”
"“Manage what?”
He stretched out his hand for the keys She might
have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor.
“Stop that at least,” she said piteously; the doctor
had turned back, and was questioning the driver of
Helen’s cab. A new feeling came over her; she was
fighting for women against men. She did not care about
354
The Scandal Is Out
355
rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be
over her body.
“Come, this is an odd beginning,” said her husband.
The doctor came forward now, and whispered two
words to Mr. Wilcox — the scandal was out. Sincerely
horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth.
“ I cannot help it, ” said Margaret. “Do wait. It’s
not my fault. Please all four of you go away now.”
Now the flyman was whispering to Crane.
“We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox,”
said the young doctor. “Could you go in and per-
suade your sister to come out?”
“On what grounds?” said Margaret, suddenly looking
him straight in the eyes.
Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured
something about a nervous breakdown.
“I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort.
You are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mans-
bridge. If we require your services, we will let you
know.”
“I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,”
he retorted.
“You could, but you have not. You are, therefore,
not qualified to attend my sister.”
“Come, come, Margaret!” said Henry, never raising
his eyes. “This is a terrible business, an appalling
business. It’s doctor’s orders. Open the door.”
“Forgive me, but I will not.”
“I don’t agree.”
Margaret was silent.
“This business is as broad as it ’s long,” contributed
the doctor. “We had better all work together. You
need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you.”
356
Howards End
“ Quite so,” said Henry.
“I do not need you in the least,” said Margaret.
The two men looked at each other anxiously.
“No more does my sister, who is still many weeks
from her confinement.”
“Margaret, Margaret!”
“Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possi-
ble use is he now?”
Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a
vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the
doctor. He himself might need support, for there was
trouble ahead.
“It all turns on affection now,” said Margaret.
“Affection. Don’t you see?” Resuming her usual
methods, she wrote the word on the house with her
finger. “Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you
not so much. Mr. Mansbridge does n’t know her.
That *s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives
rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr. Mans-
bridge. It’s a useful formula.”
Henry told her to be calm.
“You don’t know what you want yourselves,” said
Margaret, folding her arms. “For one sensible remark
I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would
trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it.
I ’ll stand here all the day sooner.”
“Mansbridge,” said Henry in a low voice, “perhaps
not now.”
The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master,
Crane also went back into the car.
“Now, Henry, you,” she said gently. None of her
bitterness had been directed at him. “Go away now,
dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive
The Scandal Is Out
357
me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must
go.”
He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr.
Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him.
“I shall soon find you down at Dolly' ’s,” she called,
as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly
moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a
little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A
string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she
waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all
was over and the car had started, she opened the door.
“Oh, my darling!” she said. “My darling, forgive
me.” Helen was standing in the hall.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Helen’s Whim
Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she
would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified
voice, that came strangely from her, said:
“Convenient! You did not tell me that the books
were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that
I want.”
“I told you nothing that was true. ”
“It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt
Juley been ill?”
“Helen, you wouldn’t think I ’d invent that?”
“I suppose not, ” said Helen, turning away, and crying
a very little. “But one loses faith in everything after
this.”
“We thought it was illness, but even then — I
haven’t behaved worthily.”
Helen selected another book.
“I ought not to have consulted any one. What would
our father have thought of me? ”
She did not think of questioning her sister, or of
rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future,
but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that
Helen could have committed — that want of confidence
that is the work of the devil.
358
Helen’s Whim
359
“Yes, I am annoyed,” replied Helen. “My wishes
should have been respected. I would have gone through
this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley
recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as
I now have to do ”
“Come away from those books,” called Margaret.
“Helen, do talk to me.”
“I was just saying that I have stopped living hap-
hazard. One can’t go through a great deal of — ” she
left out the noun — “without planning one’s actions
in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and
in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement,
are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary,
but only then. In the second place I have no right to
trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know
it. I have done something that the English never
pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it.
So I must live where I am not known.”
“But why did n’t you tell me, dearest?”
“Yes,” replied Helen judicially. “I might have, but
decided to wait. ”
“I believe you would never have told me.”
“Oh yes, I should. We have taken a fiat in Munich.”
Margaret glanced out of the window.
“By ‘we’ I mean myself and Monica. But for her,
I am and have been and always wish to be alone. ”
“I have not heard of Monica.”
“You wouldn’t have. She’s an Italian — by birth
at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met
her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best
person to see me through.”
“You are very fond of her, then.”
“She has been extraordinarily sensible with me,”
360
Howards End
Margaret guessed at Monica’s type — “Italiano In-
glesiato” they had named it — the crude feminist of the
South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen
had turned to it in her need!
“You must not think that we shall never meet,”
said Helen, with a measured kindness. “I shall always
have a room for you when you can be spared, and the
longer you can be with me the better. But you haven’t
understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult
for you. This is a shock to you. It is n’t to me, who
have been thinking over our futures for many months,
and they won’t be changed by a slight contretemps,
such as this. I cannot live in England.”
“Helen, you’ve not forgiven me for my treachery.
You could n't talk like this to me if you had.”
“ Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all? ” She dropped
a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself,
she said: “Tell me, how is it that all the books are down
here?”
“Series of mistakes.”
“And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked.”
“All.”
“Who lives here, then?”
“No one.”
MI suppose you are letting it, though.”
“The house is dead,” said Margaret, with a frown.
“Why worry on about it?”
“But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all
my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now
this has n’t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems
more alive even than in the old days, when it held the
Wilcoxes’ own things.”
“Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you,
Helen’s Whim
361
I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we — but
by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss
Avery, instead of — ” She stopped. “Look here,
I can’t go on like this. I warn you I won’t. Helen,
why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply
because you hate Henry?”
“I don’t hate him now,” said Helen. “I have
stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I ’m
not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your
English life — no, put it out of your head at once.
Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It’s un-
thinkable.”
Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling
to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not
bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor
confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the com-
pany of those who would not blame her. She had been
through — how much? Margaret did not know. But
it was enough to part her from old habits as well as
old friends.
“Tell me about yourself, ” said Helen, who had chosen
her books, and was lingering over the furniture.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“But your marriage has been happy, Meg?”
“Yes, but I don’t feel inclined to talk.”
“You feel as I do.”
“Not that, but I can’t.”
“No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good
trying.”
Something had come between them. Perhaps it was
Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen.
Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit.
They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered
362 Howards End
acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that
affection survived.
“Look here, Meg, is the coast clear? ”
“You mean that you want to go away from me?”
“I suppose so — dear old lady! it isn’t any use. I
knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love
to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than
I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich
later.”
“Certainly, dearest.”
“For that is all we can do.”
It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen’s com-
mon sense ; Monica had been extraordinarily good for her.
“I am glad to have seen you and the things.” She
looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying
farewell to the past.
Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: “The
car has gone, and here ’s your cab.”
She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the
sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful.
The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out,
“Please, lady, a message,” and handed her Henry’s
visiting-card through the bars.
“How did this come?” she asked.
Crane had returned with it almost at once.
She read the card with annoyance. It was covered
with instructions in domestic French. When she and
her sister had talked she was to come back for the night
to Dolly’s. II faut dormir sur ce sujet . ” While
Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre d
Vhdtel . The final sentence displeased her greatly
until she remembered that the Charles’s had only one
spare room, and so could not invite a third guest.
Helen’s Whim 363
“Henry would have done what he could,” she
interpreted.
Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door
once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained
in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew
more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.
“This is Mr. Wilcox’s house?’’ she inquired.
“Surely you remember Howards End?’’
“Remember? I who remember everything! But
it looks to be ours now.”
“Miss Avery was extraordinary,” said Margaret,
her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was in-
vaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought
her relief, and she yielded to it. “She loved Mrs.
Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our
things than think of it empty. In consequence here
are all the library books. ”
“Not all the books. She hasn’t unpacked the Art
books, in which she may show her sense. And we
never used to have the sword here.”
“The sword looks well, though.”
“Magnificent.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
“Where ’s the piano, Meg?”
“I warehoused that in London. Why?”
“Nothing.”
“Curious, too, that the carpet fits.”
“The carpet’s a mistake,” announced Helen. “I
know that we had it in London, but this floor ought
to be bare. It is far too beautiful. ”
“You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would
you care to come into the dining-room before you start?
There ’s no carpet there.”
364
Howards End
They went in, and each minute their talk became
more natural.
“Oh, what a place for mother’s chiffonier!” cried
Helen.
“Look at the chairs, though.”
“Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north,
didn’t it?”
“North-west.”
“Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those
chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs
are quite warm.”
“But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners?
I shall just ”
“Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting
will see the lawn.”
Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.
“Ye-es. The window ’s too high.”
“Try a drawing-room chair.”
“No, I don’t like the drawing-room so much. The
beam has been match-boarded. It would have been
so beautiful otherwise.”
“Helen, what a memory you have for some things!
You ’re perfectly right. It ’s a room that men have
spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men
don’t know what we want ”
“And never will.”
“I don’t agree. In two thousand years they’ll
know.”
“But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where
Tibby spilt the soup.”
“Coffee. It was coffee surely.”
Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was
far too young to be given coffee at that time.”
Helen’s Whim
365
“Was father alive ?”
“Yes.”
“Then you ’re right and it must have been soup. I
was thinking of much later — that unsuccessful visit
of Aunt Juley’s, when she did n’t realise that Tibby
had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it
down on purpose. There was some rhyme, * Tea,
coffee — coffee, tea, ’ that she said to him every morning
at breakfast. Wait a minute — how did it go?”
“I know — no, I don’t. What a detestable boy
Tibby was!”
“But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent
person could put up with it.”
“Ah, that greengage- tree, ” cried Helen, as if the
garden was also part of their childhood. “Why do I
connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the
chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-
hammers ”
Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she
announced.
“‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea,
Or chocolaritee.’
“That every morning for three weeks. No wonder
Tibby was wild.”
“Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen.
“There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of
course he ’s a dear.”
A bell rang.
“Listen! what ’s that?”
Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning
the siege.”
‘ 1 What nonsense — listen ! ’ ’
And the triviality faded from their faces, though it
366
Howards End
left something behind — the knowledge that they never
could be parted because their love was rooted in common
things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they
had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only
made each other unhappy. And all the time their
salvation was lying round them — the past sanctifying
the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, de-
claring that there would after all be a future with
laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling,
came up to her sister. She said, “It is always Meg.”
They looked into each other's eyes. The inner life
had paid.
Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the
front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled
between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor
was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality
returned.
“Little boy, what do you want?”
“Please, I am the milk.”
“Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather
sharply.
“Yes, please.”
“Then take it back and say we require no milk.”
While she called to Helen, “No, it’s not the siege, but
possibly an attempt to provision us against one. ”
“But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it
away?”
“Do you? Oh, very well. But we've nothing to
put it in, and he wants the can.”
“Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,”
said the boy.
“The house will be locked up then.”
“In the morning would I bring eggs too?”
Helen’s Whim 367
“Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks
last week?”
The child hung his head.
“Well, run away and do it again.”
“Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what ’s
your name? Mine ’s Helen. ”
“Tom.”
That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would
ask a child its name, but they never told their names in
return.
“Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ’ve
another called Tibby.”
“Mine are lop-eareds,” replied Tom, supposing
Tibby to be a rabbit.
“You ’re a very good and rather a clever little boy.
Mind you come again. — Is n’t he charming?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably
the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this
place has wonderful powers.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because I probably agree with you.”
“It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful
live.”
“I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk.'
“But you said that the house was dead not half an hour
ago.”
“Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.”
“Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it
was empty, and, as it is, I can’t get over that for thirty
years the sun has never shone full on our furniture.
After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ’ve a
startling idea.”
368
Howards End
“What is it?”
“ Drink some milk to steady you. ”
Margaret obeyed.
“No, I won’t tell you yet,” said Helen, “because you
may laugh or be angry. Let ’s go upstairs first and
give the rooms an airing. ”
They opened window after window, till the inside,
too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture-
frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of ex-
citement as she found this bed obviously in its right
place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss
Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. “Then
one would see really.” She admired the view. She
was the Helen who had written the memorable letters
four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward,
she said: “About my idea. Couldn’t you and I camp
out in this house for the night?”
“I don’t think we could well do that, ” said Margaret.
“Here are beds, tables, towels ”
“I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept
in, and Henry’s suggestion was ”
“I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything
in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure
to have one night here with you. It will be something
to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let ’s!”
“But, Helen, my pet,” said Margaret, “we can’t
without getting Henry’s leave. Of course, he would
give it, but you said yourself that you could n’t visit
at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate.”
“Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our
furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do
let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us
on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon.”
Helen’s Whim
369
Margaret hesitated. “I feel Charles wouldn’t like
it,” she said at last. “Even our furniture annoyed
him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley’s
illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles.
He feels it ’s his mother’s house. He loves it in rather
an untaking way. Henry I could answer for — not
Charles.”
“I know he won’t like it,” said Helen. “But I am
going to pass out of their lives. What difference will
it make in the long run if they say, ‘And she even
spent the night at Howards End’?”
“How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives?
We have thought that twice before.”
“Because my plans ”
“ — which you change in a moment.”
“Then because my life is great and theirs are little,”
said Helen, taking fire. “I know of things they can’t
know of, and so do you. We know that there ’s poetry.
We know that there ’s death. They can only take them
on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it
feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the
door-keys, but for this one night we are at home.”
“It would be lovely to have you once more alone,”
said Margaret. “It may be a chance in a thousand.”
“Yes, and we could talk.” She dropped her voice.
“It won’t be a very glorious story. But under that
wych-elm — honestly, I see little happiness ahead.
Cannot I have this one night with you?”
“I need n’t say how much it would mean to me.”
“Then let us.”
“It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to
Hilton now and get leave?”
“Oh, we don’t want leave.”
24
370
Howards End
But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagina-
tion and poetry — perhaps on account of them — she
could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry
would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too.
A night’s lodging — and they demanded no more — need
not involve the discussion of general principles.
“Charles may say no,” grumbled Helen.
“We shan’t consult him.”
“Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave.”
It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough
to mar Helen’s character, and even added to its beauty.
She would have stopped without leave and escaped to
Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.
“Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward
to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such
a beautiful thing.”
“Not a thing, only an ending,” said Helen rather
sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret
again as soon as she left the house.
She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to
fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was
glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the
farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the
straw.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A Quarrel
The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many
another talk, by the man’s deft assertion of his superior-
ity. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped
out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude,
and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly,
who had not been “told,” ran out with offers of tea.
He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby’s
perambulator away, as they desired to be alone.
“But the diddums can’t listen; he isn’t nine months
old,” she pleaded.
“That ’s not what I was saying,” retorted her father-
in-law.
Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear
about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn
of Margaret.
“Is it what we feared?” he asked.
“It is.”
“Dear girl,” he began, “there is a troublesome busi-
ness ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute
honesty and plain speech will see us through.” Mar-
garet bent her head. “I am obliged to question you
on subjects we ’d both prefer to leave untouched. As
37i
372
Howards End
you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who
consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain
me, but there are occasions — We are husband and
wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you
are a most exceptional woman.”
All Margaret’s senses forsook her. She blushed, and
looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring
herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind.
“I see that you feel as I felt when — My poor
little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions,
and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a
wedding-ring? ”
Margaret stammered a “No.”
There was an appalling silence.
“Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards
End.”
“One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for
the name of her seducer.”
She rose to her feet and held the chair between them.
Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not
displease him that she should receive his question thus.
“Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember
that this is far worse for me than for you.”
She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then
speech came, and she said slowly: “Seducer? No; I do
not know her seducer’s name.”
“Would she not tell you?”
“I never even asked her who seduced her,” said
Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully.
“That is singular.” Then he changed his mind.
“Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn’t ask.
But until his name is known, nothing can be done.
Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I
A Quarrel 373
knew you were n’t fit for it. I wish I had n’t taken
you.”
Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t
mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills.”
“As you like.”
“Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?”
“Next you must tell me whether you have gathered
anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear.
I only wish my own was as good. You may have
guessed something, even though your sister said nothing.
The slightest hint would help us.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I thought it best to ring up Charles.”
“That was unnecessary,” said Margaret, growing
warmer. “This news will give Charles disproportionate
pain.”
“He has at once gone to call on your brother.”
“That too was unnecessary.”
“Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You
don’t think that I and my son are other than gentle-
men? It is in Helen’s interests that we are acting. It
is still not too late to save her name. ”
Then Margaret hit out for the first time. “Are we
to make her seducer marry her?” she asked.
“If possible, yes.”
“But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married
already? One has heard of such cases.”
“In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct,
and be thrashed within an inch of his life.”
So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it.
What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives.
Henry’s obtuseness had saved her as well as himself.
Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking
374
Howards End
at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At
last she said: “May I ask you my question now?”
“Certainly, my dear.”
“To-morrow Helen goes to Munich ”
“Well, possibly she is right.”
“Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes;
to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at
Howards End.”
It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have
recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She
had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed
to warn him that they were far more important than
he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they
were a business proposition.
“Why Howards End?” he said at last. “Would she
not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?”
Margaret hastened to give him reasons. “It is an
odd request, but you know what Helen is and what
women in her state are.” He frowned, and moved
irritably. “She has the idea that one night in your
house would give her pleasure and do her good. I
think she ’s right. Being one of those imaginative
girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes
her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her
last words to me were, ‘A beautiful ending.’ ”
“She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons,
in fact.”
“Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her
last hope of being with it.”
“I don’t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her
share of the goods wherever she goes — possibly more
than her share, for you are so fond of her that you ’d
give her anything of yours that she fancies, would n’t
375
A Quarrel
you? and I ’d raise no objection. I could understand
it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house” —
he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of
a telling point — “because a house in which one has once
lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don’t know
why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no
associations with Howards End, though I and Charles
and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay
the night there. She will only catch cold.”
“ Leave it that you don’t see, ” cried Margaret. “Call
it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact.
Helen is fanciful, and wants to.”
Then he surprised her — a rare occurrence. He shot
an unexpected bolt. “If she wants to sleep one night
she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out
of the house, perhaps.”
“Well?” said Margaret, with the precipice in sight.
“And suppose we don’t get her out of the house? Would
it matter? She would do no one any harm. ”
Again the irritated gesture.
“No, Henry,” she panted, receding. “I didn’t
mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for
this one night. I take her to London to-morrow ”
“Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?”
“She cannot be left alone.”
“That ’s quite impossible! Madness. You must be
here to meet Charles.”
“I have already told you that your message to Charles
was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him.”
4 ‘ Margaret — my Margaret ’ ’
“What has this business to do with Charles? If it
concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles
not at all.”
3 76
Howards End
“As the future owner of Howards End, ” said Mr.
Wilcox arching his fingers, “I should say that it did
concern Charles.”
“In what way? Will Helen’s condition depreciate
the property?”
“My dear, you are forgetting yourself.”
“I think you yourself recommended plain speaking.”
They looked at each other in amazement. The preci-
pice was at their feet now.
“Helen commands my sympathy,” said Henry.
“As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and
I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against
than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing
has happened. I should be false to my position in
society if I did. ”
She controlled herself for the last time. “No, let
us go back to Helen’s request,” she said. “It is un-
reasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. To-
morrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society
no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty
house — a house which you do not care about, and which
you have not occupied for over a year. May she?
Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her —
as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually
been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That
will be enough.”
“As I have actually been forgiven — ?”
“Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,”
said Margaret. “Answer my question.”
Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him.
If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he
answered: “I seem rather unaccommodating, but I
have some experience of life, and know how one thing
377
A Quarrel
leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better
sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory
of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that
she leaves my house at once.”
“You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs.
Bast?”
“You have not been yourself all day,” said Henry,
and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret
rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was
transfigured.
“Not any more of this!” she cried. “You shall see
the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had
a mistress — I forgave you. My sister has a lover —
you drive her from the house. Do you see the con-
nection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel — oh, contemptible!
— a man who insults his wife when she ’s alive and cants
with her memory when she ’s dead. A man who ruins
a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other
men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says
he is not responsible. These men are you. You can’t
recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ’ve
had enough of your unweeded kindness. I ’ve spoilt
you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled.
Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what
you are — muddled, criminally muddled. Men like
you use repentance as a blind, so don’t repent. Only
say to yourself, ‘What Helen has done, I ’ve done.’”
“The two cases are different,” Henry stammered.
His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still
in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer.
“In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs.
378
Howards End
Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society,'
Helen can’t. You have had only pleasure, she may!<
die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, i:
Henry?”
Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry’s retort came.
“I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is
scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her:
husband. My rule through life has been never to pay ;
the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat
what I said before: I do not give you and your sister >
leave to sleep at Howards End.”
Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house,
wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief, s'
For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of |
warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out •
into what was now the evening.
CHAPTER XXXIX
What Tibby Knows
Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the
latter was staying. Their interview was short and
absurd. They had nothing in common but the English
language, and tried by its help to express what neither
of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family
foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous
of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward
to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was
made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way
before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered
she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool.
But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part
of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles’s
dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly
before him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if they
were heads in a note-book, he ran through all the inci-
dents of the Schlegels’ campaign: the attempt to com-
promise his brother, his mother’s legacy, his father’s
marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the un-
packing of the same. He had not yet heard of the
request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their
master-stroke and the opportunity for his. But he
379
380
Howards End
already felt that Howards End was the objective, and,;!t
though he disliked the house, was determined to defend!
it-
Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stoodjj
above the conventions : his sister had a right to do what;,
she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above1
the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; ft
men can always be more unconventional than women, p
and a bachelor of independent means need encounter
no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money
enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he;
shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only!
to move into another. His was the leisure without!
sympathy — an attitude as fatal as the strenuous; a <
little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His |
sisters had seen the family danger, and had never for-n
gotten to discount the gold islets that raised them from
the sea. Tibby gave all the praise to himself, and so
despised the struggling and the submerged.
Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between
them was economic as well as spiritual. But several
facts passed; Charles pressed for them with an im-
pertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand.
On what date had Helen gone abroad? To whom?
(Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Germany.)
Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: “I suppose
you realise that you are your sister's protector?”
“In what sense?”
“If a man played about with my sister, I ’d send a
bullet through him, but perhaps you don’t mind. ”
“I mind very much,” protested Tibby.
“Who d’ ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One
always suspects some one.”
What Tibby Knows 381
“No one. I don’t think so.” Involuntarily he
blushed. He had remembered the scene in his Oxford
rooms.
“You are hiding something, ” said Charles. As inter-
views go, he got the best of this one. “When you saw
her last, did she mention any one’s name? Yes or no!”
he thundered, so that Tibby started.
“In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the
Basts ”
“Who are the Basts?”
“People — friends of hers at Evie’s wedding.”
“I don’t remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My
aunt told me about some tag-rag. Was she full of
them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she
speak of the man? Or — look here — have you had any
dealings with him?”
Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had
betrayed his sister’s confidence; he was not enough
interested in human life to see where things will lead to.
He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once
given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply
vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but
for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment.
“I see — you are in his confidence. They met at
your rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God
help the poor pater ”
And Tibby found himself alone.
CHAPTER XL
Under the Wych-Elm
\
Leonard — he would figure at length in a newspaper;
report, but that evening he did not count for much.
The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon wasi
still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to I
left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming, j
Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause.
Perhaps it was Helen’s way of falling in love — a
curious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose j
contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image.
Helen forgot people. They were husks that had en-
closed her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself,
or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest j
way, where man and woman, having lost themselves;
in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship?
Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This
was Helen’s evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of
her — the loss of friends and of social advantages, the
agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is
not even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the !
present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes
of the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale
of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring
peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen.
382
3&3
Under the Wych-Elm
She could not assess her trespass by any moral code;
it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us
that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins
in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen.
The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer
may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was
evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that
cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone.
This was Helen’s evening — won at what cost, and
not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her
own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word.
“One isolates,” said Helen slowly. “I isolated Mr.
Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard
downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost
of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only,
and so, when your letters came ”
“I need never have written them,” sighed Margaret.
“They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to
tidy away the past, even for others!”
“I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss
the Basts.”
“Looking back, that was wrong of me.”
“Looking back, darling, I know that it was right.
It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less
enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought
you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch
of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by
this time — and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not
seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard —
I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have
warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came
I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said
that he guessed the explanation — he knew of it, and
384
Howards End
you must n’t know. I pressed him to tell me. He
said no one must know; it was something to do with his
wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss i
Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank
with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr.
Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, not one. I drew
him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely
myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on
worshipping me. I want never to see him again, though
it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and
feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about
these things!”
She laid her face against the tree.
“The little, too, that is known about growth! Both
times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic after-
wards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?”
Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was
she that her attention had actually wandered to the i
teeth — the teeth that had been thrust into the tree’s bark
to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them
gleam. She had been trying to count them. “Leonard
is a better growth than madness,” she said. “I was
afraid that you would react against Paul until you
went over the verge.”
“ I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady
now. I shan’t ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or
even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding
hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any
more. I understand how you married him, and you
will now be very happy.”
Margaret did not reply.
“Yes,” repeated Helen, her voice growing more
tender, “I do at last understand.”
Under the Wych-Elm 385
“Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands
our little movements.”
“Because in death — I agree.”
“Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are
only fragments of that woman’s mind. She knows
everything. She is everything. She is the house, and
the tree that leans over it. People have their own deaths
as well as their own lives, and even if there is nothing
beyond death, we shall differ in our nothingness. I
cannot believe that knowledge such as hers will perish
with knowledge such as mine. She knew about real-
ities. She knew when people were in love, though she
was not in the room. I don’t doubt that she knew
when Henry deceived her.”
“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” called a voice.
“Oh, good-night, Miss Avery.”
“Why should Miss Avery work for us?” Helen
murmured.
“Why, indeed?”
Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the
hedge that divided it from the farm. An old gap, which
Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and her track
through the dew followed the path that he had turfed
over, when he improved the garden and made it possible
for games.
“ This is not quite our house yet, ” said Helen. “ When
Miss Avery called, I felt we are only a couple of tourists.”
“We shall be that everywhere, and for ever.”
“But affectionate tourists ”
“But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home.”
“I can’t pretend very long,” said Helen. “Sitting
under this tree one forgets, but I know that to-morrow
I shall see the moon rise out of Germany. Not all your
25
386
Howards End
goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless you !
will come with me.”
Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year
she had grown so fond of England that to leave it was
a real grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry j
would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and
muddling into a ripe old age. But what was the good?
She had just as soon vanish from his mind.
“Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I
get on with your Monica?”
“You would not, but I am serious in asking you.”
“Still, no more plans now. And no more reminis- 1
cences.”
They were silent for a little. It was Helen’s evening.
The present flowed by them like a stream. The
tree rustled. It had made music before they were born,
and would continue after their deaths, but its song was
of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree
rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they
seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree
rustled again.
“Sleep now,” said Margaret.
The peace of the country was entering into her. It
has no commerce with memory, and little with hope.
Least of all is it concerned with the hopes of the next
five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which
passes understanding. Its murmur came “now,” and
“now” once more as they trod the gravel, and “now,”
as the moonlight fell upon their father’s sword. They
passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless iterations
fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at
first, but as the moon rose higher the two disentangled,
and were clear for a few moments at midnight. Mar-
3«7
Under the Wych-Elm
garet awoke and looked into the garden. How incom-
prehensible that Leonard Bast should have won her
this night of peace! Was he also part of Mrs. Wilcox’s
mind?
CHAPTER XLI
A Tragedy
Far different was Leonard’s development. The months
after Oniton, whatever minor troubles they might bring
him, were all overshadowed by Remorse. When Helen
looked back she could philosophise, or she could look i
into the future and plan for her child. But the father
saw nothing beyond his own sin. Weeks afterwards,
in the midst of other occupations, he would suddenly ;
cry out, “Brute — you brute, I couldn’t have — ”
and be rent into two people who held dialogues. Or
brown rain would descend, blotting out faces and the :
sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in him. Most
terrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep.
Sometimes he was happy at first, but grew conscious
of a burden hanging to him and weighing down his
thoughts when they would move. Or little irons
scorched his body. Or a sword stabbed him. He would
sit at the edge of his bed, holding his heart and moaning,
“Oh what shall I do, whatever shall I do?” Nothing
brought ease. He could put distance between him and
the trespass, but it grew in his soul.
Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The
Greeks were right to dethrone her. Her action is too
388
3§9
A Tragedy
capricious, as though the Erinyes selected for punish-
ment only certain men and certain sins. And of all
means to regeneration Remorse is surely the most
wasteful. It cuts away healthy tissues with the poisoned.
It is a knife that probes far deeper than the evil. Leonard
was driven straight through its torments and emerged
pure, but enfeebled — a better man, who would never
lose control of himself again, but also a smaller man,
who had less to control. Nor did purity mean peace.
The use of the knife can become a habit as hard to
shake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to
start with a cry out of dreams.
He built up a situation that was far enough from the
truth. It never occurred to him that Helen was to
blame. He forgot the intensity of their talk, the charm
that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oniton
under darkness and of the whispering river. Helen
loved the absolute. Leonard had been ruined absolutely,
and had appeared to her as a man apart, isolated from
the world. A real man, who cared for adventure and
beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his way,
who could have travelled more gloriously through life
than the Juggernaut car that was crushing him. Mem-
ories of Evie’s wedding had warped her, the starched
servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle of over-
dressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel,
a pretentious band. She had tasted the lees of this
on her arrival; in the darkness, after failure, they in-
toxicated her. She and the victim seemed alone in a
world of unreality, and she loved him absolutely,
perhaps for half an hour.
In the morning she was gone. The note that she
left, tender and hysterical in tone, and intended to be
390
Howards End
most kind, hurt her lover terribly. It was as if some
work of art had been broken by him, some picture in
the National Gallery slashed out of its frame. When
he recalled her talents and her social position, he felt
that the first passer-by had a right to shoot him down.
He was afraid of the waitress and the porters at the
railway-station. He was afraid at first of his wife,
though later he was to regard her with a strange new
tenderness, and to think, “There is nothing to choose
between us, after all.”
The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts
permanently. Helen in her flight forgot to settle the
hotel bill, and took their return tickets away with her;
they had to pawn Jacky’s bangles to get home, and
the smash came a few days afterwards. It is true that
Helen offered him five thousand pounds, but such a
sum meant nothing to him. He could not see that the
girl was desperately righting herself, and trying to save
something out of the disaster, if it was only five thousand
pounds. But he had to live somehow. He turned to
his family, and degraded himself to a professional .
beggar. There was nothing else for him to do.
“A letter from Leonard,” thought Blanche, his sister;
“ and after all this time. ” She hid it, so that her husband
should not see, and when he had gone to his work read
it with some emotion, and sent the prodigal a little
money out of her dress allowance.
“A letter from Leonard!” said the other sister, Laura,
a few days later. She showed it to her husband. He
wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent more money than
Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again.
And during the winter the system was developed.
Leonard realised that they need never starve, because
39i
A Tragedy
it would be too painful for his relatives. Society is
based on the family, and the clever wastrel can exploit
this indefinitely. Without a generous thought on either
side, pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked
Leonard, and he grew to hate them intensely. When
Laura censured his immoral marriage, he thought
bitterly, “She minds that! What would she say if she
knew the truth ? ’ ’ When Blanche’s husband offered him
work, he found some pretext for avoiding it. He had
wanted work keenly at Oniton, but too much anxiety
had shattered him, he was joining the unemployable.
When his brother, the lay-reader, did not reply to a
letter, he wrote again, saying that he and Jacky would
come down to his village on foot. He did not intend
this as blackmail. Still the brother sent a postal order,
and it became part of the system. And so passed his
winter and his spring.
In the horror there are two bright spots. He never
confused the past. He remained alive, and blessed
are those who live, if it is only to a sense of sinfulness.
The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur
and blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard’s lips —
“ And if I drink oblivion of a day,
So shorten I the stature of my soul.”
It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it
lies at the root of all character.
And the other bright spot was his tenderness for
Jacky. He pitied her with nobility now — not the con-
temptuous pity of a man who sticks to a woman through
thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He
wondered what her hungry eyes desired— nothing that
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Howards End
she could express, or that he or any man could give her.
Would she ever receive the justice that is mercy — the
justice for by-products that the world is too busy to
bestow? She was fond of flowers, generous with money,
and not revengeful. If she had borne him a child he
might have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard would
never have begged; he would have flickered out and
died. But the whole of life is mixed. He had to pro-
vide for Jacky,and went down dirty paths that she might
have a few feathers and the dishes of food that suited her.
One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother.
He was in St. Paul’s. He had entered the cathedral
partly to avoid the rain and partly to see a picture that
had educated him in former years. But the light was
bad, the picture ill placed, and Time and Judgment were
inside him now. Death alone still charmed him, with
her lap of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. He
took one glance, and turned aimlessly away towards a
chair. Then down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and
her brother. They stood in the fairway of passengers,
and their faces were extremely grave. He was per-
fectly certain that they were in trouble about their
sister.
Once outside — and he fled immediately — he wished
that he had spoken to them. What was his life? What
were a few angry words, or even imprisonment? He
had done wrong — that was the true terror. Whatever
they might know, he would tell them everything he
knew. He re-entered St. Paul’s. But they had moved
in his absence, and had gone to lay their difficulties
before Mr. Wilcox and Charles.
The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new
channels. He desired to confess, and though the desire
393
A Tragedy
is proof of a weakened nature, which is about to lose
the essence of human intercourse, it did not take an
ignoble form. He did not suppose that confession
would bring him happiness. It was rather that he
yearned to get clear of the tangle. So does the suicide
yearn. The impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide
lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom
we leave behind. Confession need harm no one — it
can satisfy that test — and though it was un-English,
and ignored by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard had a
right to decide upon it.
Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her
hardness now. That cold, intellectual nature of hers
would be just, if unkind. He would do whatever she
told him, even if he had to see Helen. That was the
supreme punishment she would exact. And perhaps
she would tell him how Helen was. That was the
supreme reward.
He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether
she was married to Mr. Wilcox, and tracking her out
took several days. That evening he toiled through
the wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were
now appearing. Was he also the cause of their move?
Were they expelled from society on his account? Thence
to a public library, but could find no satisfactory Schlegel
in the directory. On the morrow he searched again.
He hung about outside Mr. Wilcox’s office at lunch
time, and, as the clerks came out said, “Excuse me, sir,
but is your boss married?” Most of them stared, some
said, “What’s that to you?” but one, who had not
yet acquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leon-
ard could not learn the private address. That necessi-
tated more trouble with directories and tubes. Ducie
394
Howards End
Street was not discovered till the Monday, the day that
Margaret and her husband went down on their hunting
expedition to Howards End.
He called at about four o’clock. The weather had
changed, and the sun shone gaily on the ornamental
steps — black and white marble in triangles. Leonard
lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He
felt in curious health; doors seemed to be opening and
shutting inside his body, and he had been obliged to
sleep sitting up in bed, with his back propped against
the wall. When the parlourmaid came he could not
see her face; the brown rain had descended suddenly.
“Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?” he asked.
“She ’s out,” was the answer.
“When will she be back?”
“I ’ll ask,” said the parlourmaid.
Margaret had given instructions that no one who
mentioned her name should ever be rebuffed. Putting
the door on the chain — for Leonard’s appearance de-
manded this — she went through to the smoking-room,
which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He
had had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung
him up for the distracting interview. He said drowsily:
“I don’t know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?”
“I ’ll ask, sir.”
“No, don’t bother.”
“They have taken the car to Howards End,” said the
parlourmaid to Leonard.
He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was.
“You appear to want to know a good deal,” she
remarked. But Margaret had forbidden her to be
mysterious. She told him against her better judgment
that Howards End was in Hertfordshire.
395
A Tragedy
x “Is it a village, please?”
“Village! It ’s Mr. Wilcox’s private house — at least,
it ’s one of them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture
there. Hilton is the village. ”
“Yes. And when will they be back?”
“Mr. Schlegel does n’t know. We can’t know every-
thing, can we?” She shut him out, and went to attend
to the telephone, which was ringing furiously.
He loitered away another night of agony. Con-
fession grew more difficult. As soon as possible he
went to bed. He watched a patch of moonlight cross
the floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes happens
when the mind is overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest
of the room, but kept awake for the patch of moonlight.
Horrible ! Then began one of those disintegrating
dialogues. Part of him said: “Why horrible? It’s
2 ordinary light from the moon.” “But it moves.”
“So does the moon.” “But it is a clenched fist.”
“Why not?” “ But it is going to touch me. ” “Let it.”
And, seeming to gather motion, the patch ran up his
blanket. Presently a blue snake appeared ; then another
parallel to it. “Is there life in the moon?” “Of
course.” “But I thought it was uninhabited.” “Not
by Time, Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes.”
“Smaller snakes!” said Leonard indignantly and aloud.
“What a notion!” By a rending effort of the will he
woke the rest of the room up. Jacky, the bed, their
food, their clothes on the chair, gradually entered his
consciousness, and the horror vanished outwards, like
a ring that is spreading through water.
“I say, Jacky, I ’m going out for a bit.”
She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell
clear of the striped blanket, and began to cover the
\
396
Howards End
shawl that lay over her feet. Why had he been afraid?
He went to the window, and saw that the moon was
descending through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes,
and the bright expanses that a gracious error has named
seas. They paled, for the sun, who had lit them up,
was coming to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea
of Tranquillity, Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged
into one lucent drop, itself to slip into the sempiternal
dawn. And he had been afraid of the moon!
He dressed among the contending lights, and went
through his money. It was running low again, but
enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it clinked,
Jacky opened her eyes.
“Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!”
“What ho, Jacky! see you again later.”
She turned over and slept.
The house was unlocked, their landlord being a sales-
man at Co vent Garden. Leonard passed out and made
his way down to the station. The train, though it did
not start for an hour, was already drawn up at the end
of the platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With
the first jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gate-
ways of King’s Cross, and were under blue sky. Tun-
nels followed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and
from the embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first
sight of the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern
smokes — a wheel, whose fellow was the descending
moon — and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky,
not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it
was day. To the left fell the shadow of the embankment
and its arches; to the right Leonard saw up into the
Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its wild
legend of immortality. Six forest trees — that is a fact —
397
A Tragedy
grow out of one of the graves in Tewin churchyard.
The grave’s occupant — that is the legend — is an atheist,
who declared that if God existed, six forest trees would
grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire;
and farther afield lay the house of a hermit — Mrs.
Wilcox had known him — who barred himself up, and
wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the poor.
While, powdered in between, were the villas of business
men, who saw life more steadily, though with the steadi-
ness of the half-closed eye. Over all the sun was stream-
ing, to all the birds were singing, to all the primroses
were yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country,
however they interpreted her, was uttering her cry of
“now.” She did not free Leonard yet, and the knife
plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at
Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful.
Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting.
Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it
into the country. Here men had been up since dawn.
Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by
the movements of the crops and the sun. That they
were men of the finest type only the sentimentalists
can declare. But they kept to the life of daylight.
They are England’s hope. Clumsily they carry forward
the torch of the sun, until such time as the nation sees
fit to take it up. Half clodhopper, half board-school
prig, they can still throw back to a nobler stock, and
breed yeomen.
At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was
another type, whom Nature favours — the Imperial.
Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth.
It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly;
strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman,
398
Howards End
who carries his country’s virtue overseas. But the ;
Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a
destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, ;
and though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth
that he inherits will be grey.
To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the
conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not
the optimism which he had been taught at school. ;
Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins
stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the ;;
superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from j
his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of
death saves him — that is the best account of it that has ,
yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all
that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love, i
They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they
are not love’s servants. But they can beckon, and the
knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him.
As he approached the house all thought stopped.
Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind.
He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no
sin. He knew the confession : “ Mrs. Wilcox, I have done
wrong,” but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt
rather on a supreme adventure.
He entered a garden, steadied himself against a
motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and
entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a
room to the left he heard voices, Margaret’s amongst
them. His own name was called aloud, and a man
whom he had never seen said, “Oh, is he there? I am
not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his
life.”
t “Mrs. Wilcox,” said Leonard, “I have done wrong.”
399
A Tragedy
The man took him by the collar and cried, “ Bring
me a stick.” Women were screaming. A stick, very
bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended,
but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower.
Nothing had sense.
“Get some water,” commanded Charles, who had
all through kept very calm. “He’s shamming. Of
course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out
into the air.”
Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret
obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on
the gravel; Helen poured water over him.
“That’s enough,” said Charles.
“Yes, murder’s enough,” said Miss Avery, coming
out of the house with the sword.
CHAPTER XLII
The Most Important Witness
When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first
train home, but had no inkling of the newest develop-
ment until late at night. Then his father, who had
dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones
inquired for Margaret.
“I don’t know where she is, pater,” said Charles.
“ Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her. ”
“Tell me when she comes in.”
Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and
Charles visited his father again, to receive further in-
structions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned.
“I ’ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can
hardly be coming. Is n’t she stopping with her sister
at the hotel?”
“Perhaps, ” said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully — “perhaps.”
“Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“Not to-night, my boy.”
Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes,
and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than
he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and
strong man in one. Though his wife had proved un-
stable his children were left to him.
400
The Most Important Witness 401
After midnight he tapped on Charles’s door. “I
can’t sleep,” he said. “I had better have a talk with
you and get it over.”
He complained of the heat. Charles took him out
into the garden, and they paced up and down in their
dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the
story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret
was as bad as her sister.
“She will feel differently in the morning,” said Mr.
Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs.
Bast. “But I cannot let this kind of thing continue
without comment. I am morally certain that she is
with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine —
and, Charles, it will be yours — and when I say that no
one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there.
I won’t have it.” He looked angrily at the moon.
“To my mind this question is connected with something
far greater, the rights of property itself.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Charles.
Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son’s, but somehow
liked him less as he told him more. “I don’t want you
to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the
nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who
would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but
on the understanding that they clear out of the house
at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non"
“Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?”
“Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my
representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles.”
On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard
dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had
used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His
stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery
26
402
Howards End
had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the
sword. On his way through the village he informed
the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an
inquest. He found his father in the garden shading
his eyes from the sun.
“It has been pretty horrible,” said Charles gravely.
“They were there, and they had the man up there with
them too.”
“What — what man?”
“I told you last night. His name was Bast.”
“My God! is it possible?” said Mr. Wilcox. “In
your mother’s house! Charles, in your mother’s house!”
“I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter
of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He
was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before
I could show him what I thought of him he went off.
The police are seeing about it at this moment. ”
Mr. Wilcox listened attentively.
“I got up there — oh, it could n’t have been more than
half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire
for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the
drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and col-
lected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your
message, and Mrs. Wilcox said, ‘Oh yes, I see; yes,’ in
that way of hers.”
“Nothing else?”
“I promised to tell you, ‘with her love,’ that she
was going to Germany with her sister this evening.
That was all we had time for.”
Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved.
“Because by then I suppose the man got tired of
hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his
name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the hall.
The Most Important Witness 403
Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little
too far.”
“ Right, my dear boy? I don’t know. But you
would have been no son of mine if you had n’t. Then
did he just — just — crumple up as you said ? ” He shrunk
from the simple word.
“He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down
over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried
him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming.
However, he ’s dead right enough. Awful business!”
“Sword?” cried his father, with anxiety in his voice.
“What sword? Whose sword?”
“A sword of theirs.”
“What were you doing with it?”
“Well, did n’t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the
first thing handy. I had n’t a riding-whip or stick.
I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the
flat of their old German sword.”
“Then what?”
“He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell,”
said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands
for his father, who was never quite satisfied.
“But the real cause was heart disease? Of that
you ’re sure?”
“That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than
enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics.”
They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking
headache, consequent on motoring before food. He was
also anxious about the future, reflecting that the police
must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and
ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged
to leave Hilton. One could not afford to live near the
scene of a scandal — it was not fair on one’s wife. His
404
Howards End
comfort was that the pater’s eyes were opened at last.
There would be a horrible smash-up, and probably a
separation from Margaret; then they would all start
again, more as they had been in his mother’s time.
“I think I ’ll go round to the police-station,” said his
father when breakfast was over.
“What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been !
“told.”
“Very well, sir. Which car will you have?”
“I think I ’ll walk.”
“It’s a good half-mile,” said Charles, stepping into
the garden. “The sun ’s very hot for April. Shan’t I
take you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin round by
Tewin?”
“You go on as if I did n’t know my own mind,” said
Mr. Wilcox fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth.
“You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a motor.
I tell you, I want to walk; I ’m very fond of walking.”
“Oh, all right; I ’m about the house if you want me
for anything. I thought of not going up to the office
to-day, if that is your wish.”
“It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a
hand on his sleeve.
Charles did not like it ; he was uneasy about his father,
who did not seem himself this morning. There was a
petulant touch about him — more like a woman. Could
it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not
lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not
know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin,
and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed
very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling up
the road, he had a vague regret — a wish that something
had been different somewhere — a wish (though he did
The Most Important Witness 405
not express it thus) that he had been taught to say “I”
in his youth. He meant to make up for Margaret’s
defection, but knew that his father had been very
happy with her until yesterday. How had she done it?
By some dishonest trick, no doubt — but how?
Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired.
There was to be an inquest on Leonard’s body to-morrow,
and the police required his son to attend.
“I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally
be the most important witness there.”
CHAPTER XLIII
The Easiest Way Out
Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt
Juley’s illness and was not even to end with Leonard’s
death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that healthy
life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical,
yet senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and
took values as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing-
cards. It was natural that Henry should do this and
cause Helen to do that, and then think her wrong for
doing it; natural that she herself should think him
wrong; natural that Leonard should want to know how
Helen was, and come, and Charles be angry with him
for coming — natural, but unreal. In this jangle of
causes and effects what had become of their true selves?
Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural
causes; yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky,
life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower,
life and death were anything and everything, except
this ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen,
and the ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and ad-
venture behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned
for; there was hope this side of the grave; there were
truer relationships beyond the limits that fetter us
406
407
The Easiest Way Out
now. As a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning,
so she, from the turmoil and horror of those days, caught
glimpses of the diviner wheels.
And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm
for the child’s sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but mur-
muring tenderly, “No one ever told the lad he ’ll have
a child” — they also reminded her that horror is not the
end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not
know, but there seemed great chance that a child would
be born into the world, to take the great chances of
beauty and adventure that the world offers. She
moved through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi,
crimson-eyed and white. There was nothing else to
be done; the time for telegrams and anger was over
and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard should
be folded on his breast and be filled with flowers. Here
was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned
into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands
hold the sunset and the dawn.
And even the influx of officials, even the return of the
doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in
the eternity of beauty. Science explained people,
but could not understand them. After long centuries
among the bones and muscles it might be advancing
to knowledge of the nerves, but this would never give
understanding. One could open the heart to Mr.
Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets
to them, for they wanted everything down in black and
white, and black and white was exactly what they were
left with.
They questioned her closely about Charles. She
never suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor
agreed that it was due to heart disease. They asked
4°8
Howards End
to see her father’s sword. She explained that Charles’s
anger was natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions
about Leonard followed, all of which she answered un-
falteringly. Then back to Charles again. “No doubt
Mr. Wilcox may have induced death,” she said; “but
if it was n’t one thing it would have been another as
you yourselves know.” At last they thanked her, and
took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She
began to pick up the books from the floor.
Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place
for her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though,
as if things were not hard enough, Madge and her
husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they
should receive the offscourings of Howards End. And,
of course, they were right. The whole world was going
to be right, and amply avenge any brave talk against
the conventions. “Nothing matters,” the Schlegels
had said in the past, “except one’s self-respect and
that of one’s friends.” When the time came, other
things mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded,
and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night,
and to-morrow she would return to Germany.
As for herself, she determined to go too. No message
came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologise.
Now that she had time to think over her own tragedy,
she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for
his behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech
to him seemed perfect. She would not have altered
a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust
the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only
to her husband, but to thousands of men like him — a
protest against the inner darkness in high places that
comes with a commercial age. Though he would
409
The Easiest Way Out
build up his life without hers, she could not apologise.
He had refused to connect, on the clearest issue that
can be laid before a man, and their love must take the
consequences.
No, there was nothing more to be done. They had
tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall
was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the
future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would
go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none
that she could imagine. At such moments the soul
retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper
stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the
world’s glory not diminished, but different in kind to
what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial
things are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way
all the winter. Leonard’s death brought her to the goal.
Alas ! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged,
and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped
with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams.
With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He
would soon present a healthy mind to the world again,
and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at
the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man,
at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying
his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would
keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from
business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He
would settle down — though she could not realise this. In
her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others
to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time
he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What
next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul
to its appropriate Heaven.
4io
Howards End
Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in im-
mortality for herself. An eternal future had always 1
seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for
himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not
rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory I
that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether
higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers?
Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him.
He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed
like water, but the chauffeur remained, though im-
pertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and
he knew it.
“Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?” she asked.
“He did n’t say, madam.”
“You have n’t any note for me?”
“He did n’t say, madam.”
After a moment’s thought she locked up Howards
End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth
that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the
fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the
coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows
and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell
the place now.
She was determined not to spare him, for nothing
new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her
mood might never have altered from yesterday evening.
He was standing a little outside Charles’s gate, and
motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he
said hoarsely: “I prefer to discuss things with you
outside.”
“ It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid, ”
said Margaret. “Did you get my message?”
“What about?”
4H
The Easiest Way Out
“I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell
you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our
talk last night was more important than you have
realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving
you.’'
“I am extremely tired,’ * said Henry, in injured tones.
“I have been walking about all the morning, and wish
to sit down.”
“Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.”
The Great North Road should have been bordered
all its length with glebe. Henry’s kind had filched most
of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were
the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so
that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.
“Here are your keys,” said Margaret. She tossed
them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of
grass, and he did not pick them up.
“I have something to tell you,” he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession
of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her
admiration of the male.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister
is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now.
We must manage to build up something, she and I and
her child.”
“Where are you going?”
“Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not
too ill.”
“After the inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest
will be?”
“Yes, heart disease,”
412
Howards End
“No, my dear; manslaughter.”
Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The
hill beneath her moved as if it were alive.
“Manslaughter,” repeated Mr. Wilcox. “Charles
may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don’t know '
what to do — what to do. I ’m broken — I ’m ended.”
No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see
that to break him was her only hope. She did not
enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that !
day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict ;
was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It
was against all reason that he should be punished, but
the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years’
imprisonment. Then Henry’s fortress gave way. He
could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to
Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she j
could with him. She did what seemed easiest — she took
him down to recruit at Howards End.
CHAPTER XLIV
Margaret’s Conquest
Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed
again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours
of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred
centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen.
“I have n’t any idea, ” she replied. “ Do you suppose
baby may, Meg?”
Margaret put down her work and regarded them
absently. “What was that?” she asked.
“Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to
play with hay?”
“I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret,
and took up her work again.
“Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie
on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he
is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut
into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as
careful as all that?”
Tom held out his arms.
“That child is a wonderful nursemaid,” remarked
Margaret.
“He is fond of baby. That ’s why he does it!” was
Helen’s answer. ‘ ‘ They ’re going to be lifelong friends. ”
4i3
4H
Howards End
“Starting at the ages of six and one?”
“Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom.”
“It may be a greater thing for baby.”
Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still
stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred
to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red
poppies were reopening in the garden. July would
follow with the little red poppies among the wheat,
August with the cutting of the wheat. These little
events would become part of her year after year. Every
summer she would fear lest the well should give out,
every winter lest the pipes should freeze ; every westerly
gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of
all things, and so she could not read or talk during a
westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and
her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie’s rockery,
where the lawn merged into the field.
“What a time they all are!” said Helen. “What can
they be doing inside?” Margaret, who was growing
less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter
came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close
by them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the
dell-holes.
“I wish Henry was out to enjoy this,” said Helen.
“This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house!
It ’s very hard.”
“It has to be,” said Margaret. “The hay fever is
his chief objection against living here, but he thinks
it worth while.”
“ Meg, is or is n’t he ill? I can’t make out. ”
“Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very
hard all his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the
people who collapse when they do notice a thing.”
Margaret’s Conquest 415
“I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of
the tangle. ”
“Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not
come, too, to-day. Still, he wanted them all to come.
It has to be.”
“Why does he want them?”
Margaret did not answer.
“Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.”
“You ’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret.
“I use n’t to.”
“Use n’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the
black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always
excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building
up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity.
Leonard was dead; Charles had two years more in
prison. One use n’t always to see clearly before that
time. It was different now.
“ I like Henry because he does worry. ”
“And he likes you because you don’t.”
Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried
her face in her hands. After a time she said: “About
love,” a transition less abrupt than it appeared.
Margaret never stopped working.
“I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I
should hang my life on to that once, and was driven
up and down and about as if something was worrying
through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem
cured. That Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps
writing about, must be a noble character, but he does n’t
see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It is n’t
shame or mistrust of myself. I simply could n’t. I ’m
ended. I used to be so dreamy about a man’s love as a
girl, and think that for good or evil love must be the
416
Howards End
great thing. But it hasn’t been; it has been itself a
dream. Do you agree?”
“I do not agree. I do not.”
“I ought to remember Leonard as my lover,” said
Helen, stepping down into the field. “I tempted him,
and killed him, and it is surely the least I can do. I
would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on
such an afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no
good pretending. I am forgetting him. ” Her eyes filled
with tears. “How nothing seems to match — how, my
darling, my precious — ” She broke off . “Tommy!”
“Yes, please?”
“Baby ’s not to try and stand. — There ’s something
wanting in me. I see you loving Henry, and under-
standing him better daily, and I know that death
would n’t part you in the least. But I — Is it some
awful, appalling, criminal defect?”
Margaret silenced her. She said: “It is only that
people are far more different than is pretended. All
over the world men and women are worrying because
they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop.
Here and there they have the matter out, and it comforts
them. Don’t fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you
have; love your child. I do not love children. I am
thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty
and charm, but that is all — nothing real, not one scrap
of what there ought to be. And others — others go
farther still, and move outside humanity altogether.
A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow. Don’t
you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is
part of the battle against sameness. Differences —
eternal differences, planted by God in a single family,
so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps,
Margaret’s Conquest 417
but colour in the daily grey. Then I can’t have you
worrying about Leonard. Don’t drag in the personal
when it will not come. Forget him.”
"Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?”
"Perhaps an adventure.”
"Is that enough?”
" Not for us. But for him. ”
Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the
sorrel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and
the quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that
composed it. She raised it to her face.
"Is it sweetening yet?” asked Margaret.
"No, only withered.”
j"It will sweeten to-morrow.”
Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person,” she
said. "Think of the racket and torture this time last
year. But now I could n’t stop unhappy if I tried.
What a change — and all through you!”
"Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry
learnt to understand one another and to forgive, all
through the autumn and the winter. ”
"Yes, but who settled us down?”
Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun,
and she took off her pince-nez to watch it.
"You!” cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest,
though you ’re too stupid to see. Living here was your
plan — I wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said
it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our
lives without you, Meg — I and baby with Monica,
revolting by theory, he handed about from Dolly to
Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a
home. Can’t it strike you — even for a moment — that
your life has been heroic? Can’t you remember the
27
418
Howards End
two months after Charles’s arrest, when you began to
act, and did all?”
“You were both ill at the time,” said Margaret. “I ;
did the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse.
Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was
obvious. I did n’t know myself it would turn into a .
permanent home. No doubt I have done a little
towards straightening the tangle, but things that I
can’t phrase have helped me.”
“I hope it will be permanent,” said Helen, drifting
away to other thoughts.
“ I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards
End peculiarly our own.”
“All the same, London ’s creeping.”
She pointed over the meadow — over eight or nine
meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust.
“You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire
now,” she continued. “I can see it from the Purbeck j
Downs. And London is only part of something else,
I ’m afraid. Life ’s going to be melted down, all over
the world.”
Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards
End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were
all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared
for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive.
One’s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they
possibly the earth beating time?
“Because a thing is going strong now, it need not
go strong for ever,” she said. “This craze for motion
has only set in during the last hundred years. It may
be followed by a civilisation that won’t be a movement,
because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are
against it now, but I can’t help hoping, and very early
Margaret’s Conquest 419
in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the
future as well as the past.”
They turned and looked at it. Their own memories
coloured it now, for Helen’s child had been born in the
central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, “Oh,
take care — !” for something moved behind the window
of the hall, and the door opened.
“The conclave’s breaking at last. I’ll go.”
It was Paul.
Helen retreated with the children far into the field.
Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to en-
counter a man with a heavy black moustache.
“ My father has asked for you, ” he said with hostility.
She took her work and followed him.
“We have been talking business,” he continued,
“but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand.”
“Yes, I_did.”
Clumsy of movement — for he had spent all his life
in the saddle — Paul drove his foot against the paint
of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of
annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she
stopped in the hall to take Dolly’s boa and gloves out
of a vase.
Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in
the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand
rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in
purple, sat near the window. The room was a little
dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this
until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the
family without speaking; the five of them had met
already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going
to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on
sewing. The clock struck six.
420
Howards End
“Is this going to suit everyone?” said Henry in a
weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect
was unexpected and shadowy. “Because I don’t want
you all coming here later on and complaining that I
have been unfair.”
“ It ’s apparently got to suit us, ” said Paul.
“I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to
speak, and I will leave the house to you instead.”
Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching
at his arm. “As I ’ve given up the outdoor life that
suited me, and I have come home to look after the
business, it ’s no good my settling down here,” he said
at last. “It’s not really the country, and it’s not
the town.”
“Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?”
“Of course, father.”
“And you, Dolly?”
Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could
wither but not steady. “Perfectly splendidly,” she
said. “I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but
last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot
possibly live in this part of England again. Charles
says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think
what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I
can’t think of any other name.”
There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously
round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul
continued to scratch his arm.
“Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely,”
said Henry. “And let everyone understand that; and
after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise.”
Margaret did not answer. There was something
uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected
421
Margaret’s Conquest
to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these
Wilcoxes and broken; up their lives.
“In consequence, I leave my wife no money,” said
Henry. “That is her own wish. All that she would
have had will be divided among you. I am also giving
you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be
independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also
is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to
diminish her income by half during the next ten years;
she intends when she dies to leave the house to her —
to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear?
Does everyone understand?”
Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives,
and a very little shook him out of the Englishman.
Feeling manly and cynical, he said: “Down in the field?
Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole
establishment, piccaninnies included.”
Mrs. Cahill whispered: “Don’t, Paul. You promised
you ’d take care.” Feeling a woman of the world, she
rose and prepared to take her leave.
Her father kissed her. “Good-bye, old girl,” he
said; “don’t you worry about me.”
“Good-bye, dad.”
Then it was Dolly’s turn. Anxious to contribute,
she laughed nervously, and said: “Good-bye, Mr.
Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should
have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it,
after all.”
From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. “Good-
bye,” she said to Margaret, and kissed her.
And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a
dying sea.
“Good-bye.”
422
Howards End
“Good-bye, Dolly.”
“So long, father.”
“Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox.”
“Good-bye.”
Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she
returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands.
He was pitiably tired. But Dolly’s remark had in-
terested her. At last she said: “Could you tell me,
Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left
me Howards End?”
Tranquilly he replied: “Yes, she did. But that is a
very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind
to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not
being herself at the time, scribbled ‘ Howards End ’ on a
piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it
was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what
my Margaret would be to me in the future. ”
Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in
its inmost recesses, and she shivered.
“I did n’t do wrong, did I?” he asked, bending down.
“You did n’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong. ’ ’
From the garden came laughter. “Here they are at
last!” exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a
smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by
one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There
were shouts of infectious joy.
“The field’s cut!” Helen cried excitedly — “the big
meadow! We ’ve seen to the very end, and it ’ll be
such a crop of hay as never!”
Weybridge, 1908-1910.
Ji Selection from the
Catalogue of
G. P. PUTNAM S SONS
*
Complete Catalogue sent
on application
“ The plot of the story is unique , the sentiment
and pathos genuine , the humor delightful , and
the style above reproach.”
Master of the Vineyard
$ty Myrtle Reed
Author of “ A Spinner in the Sun,” “ The Master’s Violin,” etc.
Crown 8 vo, with Frontispiece in Color by Blendon Campbell.
Cloth , $1.50 net. Full red leather, $2.00 net. Antique
call \ $2.50 net. Lavender silkf $3.50 net.
Uniform with “ Old Rose and Silver”
“ A book of attractive plot, of pure morals, of lofty
ideals, which deserves a reading by young and old. We
take some pleasure in unequivocally asserting these quali-
ties in Miss Reed’s latest novel, because some of those
arrogant coteries of unbaked thought, of narrow vision, of
too utterly utter estheticism, and that bluestockingism
which Moliere so well ridiculed, have affected to under-
rate her ability as a writer. The indictment of senti-
mentality is heard from these bumptious dictators of the
community’s literary diversions. Miss Reed is not George
Eliot, nor George Sand. She probably never pretended
to be, and perhaps prefers not to be. She is not a
preacher, but her books have a good purpose, are de-
lightful in description, are irradiated with a glow of
humor, and if sentimentalism be accepted as a good pre-
scription, in proper doses they are admirable. In the
present volume the publishers have outdone themselves in
decoration on cover and pages. It is a sumptuous
affair.” — * Pittsburg Leader.
New York G. P. Putnam’s Sons London
One of the most successful novels of
the year, because it is one of those un-
usual stories tbat appeals to all classes
of readers of fiction.
THE ROSARY
By Florence L. Barclay
^ONCE in a long while there appears
V_y a story like The Rosary , in which
there is but one adventure, the love of the
two real persons superbly capable of love,
the sacrifices they make for it, the sor-
rows it brings them, the exceeding re-
ward. This can only be done by a
writer of feeling, of imagination, and of
the sincerest art. When it is done, some-
thing has been done that justifies the
publishing business, refreshes the heart
of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the
outcome of the great experiment of put-
ting humanity on earth. The Rosary
is a rare book, a source of genuine de-
light.”— The Syracuse Post-Standard.
Crown 8 vo, $135 Net, ($1,50 by mail)
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York London
By the Author of h Judith of the Cumberlands n
The Sword in the
Mountains
By Alice MacGowan
Author of “ The Wiving of Lance Cleaverage,” etc.
This is another of Miss MacGowan’s striking
stories of the Cumberland Mountains, which is
likely to excel in interest and popularity anything
the author has yet written. It has as a background
the peculiar conditions that prevailed on the border-
land between North and South before and at the
time of the Civil War. Always the master of pic-
turesque description, Miss MacGowan has found
in this tale and period an opportunity for the por-
trayal of situations of unusual dramatic value ; and
her readers need hardly be told that she has made
the most and best of them. Some of the historic
incidents which she introduces are unsurpassed in
the annals of the great war.
With 5 Full-page Illustrations in Color by Robert
Edwards and Decorations by W. J. Wilson
Crown 8vo. $1.35 net . ($1.50 by mail )
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
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